


One Star in the Sky

by Ingeniarius_Mundos



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Growth, Dark Thoughts, F/M, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I just really love Fëanor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Past Character Death, Post-Fourth Age, Reconciliation, Redemption, but also happy endings, canon-divergent in places, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 113,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26072038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingeniarius_Mundos/pseuds/Ingeniarius_Mundos
Summary: Curufinwë Fëanáro is released from the Halls of Mandos in the last years of Arda, many ages after his death. In these waning days, he must confront the sins of his past, forge new ties with loved ones, and strive for redemption.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Maedhros | Maitimo/Original Female Character(s), Maglor | Makalaurë/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 216
Kudos: 136





	1. Prelude - Imprisonment

The immortal soul is not meant for nothingness.

The darkness of the Void is surely terrible. It enters greedily through every opening, filling the chest and lungs with a pressure fit to stop the heart. The eyes (it matters not that a houseless _fëa_ has no eyes) ache for straining to see something, _anything_ in the blackness. The ringing silence is enough to induce insanity. But it is the immense solitude that is the most oppressive of all. There should be something there, _must_ be something there; un-being is impossible to grasp for a spirit accustomed to the brightness and solidity of the living world.

Eventually, the mind grows desperate to fill the emptiness. Unmoored and unbounded, it flies through the stream of time, reliving the past, observing the present, discerning the future. Joyous memories are among the most painful. They only amplify the knowledge that joy, that _life_ , may be lost forever, that one's existence has been eradicated. Visions of the present are worse. The helplessness of watching loved ones suffer and die, hearing consequences echo through time, is what truly breaks the spirit.

Through it all is the dim awareness that none of this exists beyond one's mind. How could it, when the Void is nonexistence itself? It is no subtle torture of Lord Námo's that brings such pain; it is the soul itself, stripped of all its protective bulwarks and laid bare to its own guilt. Denial has no place in the Void. Sooner or late, the truth must be acknowledged.

Such was my experience in that place of imprisonment, a particularly brutal one given the nature of my misdeeds. In that black place, I came to regret, and most bitterly. There was I confronted with visions of the fall of my people, of my sons – my precious children who were my life, my world! – and I knew with terrible certainty that these revelations were real.

There was no respite from the grief. It made a cruel weapon of my own heart, as sharp and burning as the Valaraukan blade which was my downfall. I had dragged my family into a war they could not win, and then by my death, I had rendered their Oath truly unbreakable. I had left them with no alternative but to sin and suffer and die.

I have never been skilled at checking my emotions, for it is easier to allow them to consume me. This philosophy drove me to flee the Máhanaxar after my father's death, leaving Nolofinwë to rule a broken, terrified people. I needed to be alone to give vent to my anguish. A stronger person would have stood before the Noldor, viciously swallowed down his own grief, and sworn to lead his kin through the darkness. But I have never been strong enough – or selfless enough – to consider anyone else when I am in pain. My pain consumes all.

The Void did not alter this pattern. When Lord Námo came at last to offer me release into his Halls, he found my _fëa_ curled in upon itself like a dying star, its light nearly extinguished.

Recognizing the extent of my mental castigation and my unusually long imprisonment, Lord Námo determined to bring me to judgment straight away. He was delayed, however, for so weakened was my _fëa_ upon release from the Void that it would have broken under the Allfather's power. I lay for some time on a low dais ringed with torches and free-standing candelabra, shivering with the chill of the Void (as much as a _fëa_ can shiver) and trying desperately to take some comfort in the flames, as ever I had in life. This solace proved little at first, so deep in despair was I. Yet the ever-burning flames must have had some healing properties I could not understand, for in the end my health returned enough for me to face the Allfather.

The prospect of His judgment terrified me. Surely it could bring naught but further pain to a thrice-damned soul such as I.

It did, at first.

I was led before Lord Námo's obsidian throne. I had the horrible notion that this must be what it felt like to stand before the throne of Angamando and learn what torment the Dark Lord had chosen for his newest prisoner. There I waited while Lord Námo read the names of all who had lost their lives by my hand in a cold, impassive voice. I could not even begin to consider who these people might have been – whether they were warriors or simple fishermen or women and children unable to fight, whether they had families. I could only let the names wash over me like waves, soaking me in ages-old anguish.

I had collapsed in on myself again by the time it was over. It was too much.

Visions came to my open mind, thick and fast as the blood rain I had dreamed of in the Void. This was no punishment of the Allfather's, I knew. Indeed, no divine retribution could have been keener than my own agony assaulting me on all sides, my own white-hot regrets.

_The Silmarilli burned in my sons' hands. Macalaurë's fell in a shining arc over the sea while Maitimo clutched his to his chest and plunged into a chasm of flames._

_The Ambarussa lay side by side in the streets of Sirion, their hands clasped even in death. Elwing arrowed down from a tower and soared away in the likeness of a bird, taking her Silmaril forever out of reach._

_Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë lay among the slain in Doriath, their bodies riddled with Sindarin arrows and pierced with Sindarin steel._

_Maitimo hung from Thangorodrim by his wrist. His beautiful face was contorted with pain, his ribs clearly visible beneath his drawn flesh, the marks of unspeakable torture marring his body._

_I lay on my back on Dor Daedeloth, the demon steel in my gut filling my veins with fire, my sons promising desperately that I would be all right even as their faces grew hazy –_

_The seas at Alqualondë were wine-dark and the beaches strewn with corpses instead of pearls. I was covered in the blood of my opponents, and it terrified me, but for a moment I forgot my grief –_

_My father was dead in Formenos, a dark stain blossoming over his chest. Sap from a shattered tree dripped onto his face, its sweet scent mingling with that of rot –_

Lord Námo knelt before me and raised me up with uncharacteristic gentleness, saying, "You have faced the merciless Truth. Now lay it before the Allfather and receive His merciful judgment."

Terror was the first emotion to fight its way past my all-consuming guilt, yet no sooner did panic begin to cloud my mind than it was swept away by a strange calm not my own. Profound serenity filled me, and a voice that was and was not my father's whispered that all would be well. I believed it. It was not a question; it was not a statement. It simply was.

The pain piercing me to the core was soothed gently away, like a father kissing a child's scraped knee. Every hurt I had thought so deep and unhealable was simply gone. Sorrow gave way to joy as new visions flooded my mind.

_The little Ambarussa ambushed me as I walked unwitting through one of their battlefields, seizing my legs and tackling me to the ground._

_Curufinwë worked at his calligraphy with ink-flecked hands and refused to be distracted until I took the paper gently from him and sent him to wash up for supper._

_Carnistir presented me with a begetting day gift of his own creation: a bracelet of scarlet and gold beads painstakingly painted with the Star of my house._

_Tyelkormo got us lost on a hunting trip, and we were soaked with summer rain but delighted to feel it wash away the stickiness on our skin._

_Macalaurë and I improvised duets upon his concert harp, and my heart filled with pride to know that he would soon far surpass my own skill in music._

_Maitimo and I sat on the desk in my office, insulting the monarchy because it was so utterly stupid and laughing fit to be heard by the Allfather himself._

_Nerdanel was curled in bed beside me. Her head rested on my chest, her copper hair aflame with the golden glow of Laurelin. Her countenance was one of utter quietude._

_Atar extracted me from the forge after five days of work and told me in a way I could not resist that for goodness' sake, I must have a meal, a bath, and a rest._

_Atar held me close as I departed for the feast on Taniquetil, promising to see me soon._

Was this to be my fate? To return to my family and revive the long-lost days of our joy?

The Love I felt then was so powerful that it hurt, and I thought for a moment that my _fëa_ would give out under the strain. Yet it was good pain – the sort that purges and redeems and leaves a pure, sinless soul beneath. And it was wonderful. For ages I had known nothing but fear and misery, and now, to feel such unconditional love, such infinite mercy… I could not drink deeply enough.

_Curufinwë, my dear, precious child… Of the paths presented to thee in life, thou didst choose always the most difficult. Thy sins are forgiven; go now and sin no more. Rejoice in thy life renewed, and use thy many gifts to better the world. In this way mayest thou earn redemption._

Redemption! You cannot imagine the sweetness of the word in that moment!

A final wave of Love and boundless joy swept over me. I felt my _fëa_ shudder violently, embracing the emotions I needed so desperately yet were too powerful to endure.

And then I was in darkness again – not the suffocating darkness of the Void, but that which cloaks a child as he drifts off into slumber, secure in his father's arms.


	2. Contemplation

I never learned how the re-embodiment of a houseless _fëa_ is accomplished, and certainly not how it was managed in my case, with my _hröa_ burnt to ashes upon my death. Yet it was so. There is naught that the Allfather cannot do, in His infinite might and wisdom.

I woke in a simple, elegant chamber, a warm quilt drawn up to my chest, a fire crackling merrily on the hearth – and I was alive.

My _hröa_ was heavy and cumbersome after so long as a naked soul, but I did not seek comfort in other Reborn enduring the same awkwardness. I expected they would spurn me, and with good reason. Instead, I passed the days in the chamber I was given, with a four-poster blanketed in crimson and gold on one wall and a stone fireplace on another which, though it burned continuously, never appeared to consume any wood. A third wall was set with a high mullioned window, and over this the heavy curtains were drawn at all times. After so long in the Void, even the faintest touch of light was enough to send searing pain through my eyes. This saddened me greatly, for from my earliest days I had loved light, and I feared that I might never be able to look upon it again.

Gradually, however, I grew tolerant of light again, and the evening on which I beheld the sun for the first time is one I will never forget. I had been sitting on my window seat, as was my wont, when I chanced to pull back the curtain ever so slightly. Vása, I learned later, was the Noldorin name for the lamp which sent a single ray of golden light through the chink in the curtains, and a fitting name it was: she does indeed consume the heavens with her fire, especially at evening. Then the blue of the sky is burned away by her radiance of scarlet and orange and gold, and it is beautiful. The halo around her is so brilliantly white that it is painful to look upon. In those darkest of days, it reminded me of the Silmarilli I had lost, but their memory stirred no longing in me. There was only grief for all that had been sacrificed in the fruitless quest to retrieve them.

Perhaps it was for this reason that, despite the especial magnificence of sunset there at the Uttermost West, I could find no warmth in Vása's light.

I had quite a row with Lord Námo at that time. He had been urging me to leave my room and commune with the other Reborn, and I had denied him at every turn, choosing instead to castigate myself in silent solitude. One evening, he grew especially frustrated with me. He scarcely raised his voice, but his tone turned so cold and inexorable that it instilled more fear in me than if he had shouted.

"Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, you fear to be hurt by what waits outside your door, and indeed you may be, but you will do yourself far more harm if you stay here. You will drown in your own misery, and you will never find redemption. If redemption is what you seek, you must face the consequences of your actions and do all in your power to bring some good to this world. Salvation is not passive, child. It requires effort, and no small amount of risk. None but you can decide if it is worth that."

I hated him for what he said that night – largely because I knew he was right. He was right and I was wrong. I was never able to tolerate being wrong.

Determined not to let Lord Námo have the last word, I responded. I did not venture out among the other Reborn – nay, I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me heed his advice! – but I did confront my misdeeds in my own way.

I spent much time in Lord Námo's vast library, reading accounts of all that had passed since my death. My first instinct was to slam the books shut and flee – to my mind, all that had happened for ill upon Arda seemed linked to the war I started so long ago. But I forced myself to stay, and to consider as rationally as possible what I read, and I came upon a realization so plain that I could not believe I had overlooked it: for every tragedy bound to me, Moringotto and his lieutenant Sauron were bound to those and a hundred more besides. I was not, it seemed, the root of all evil. I played a principal role, but Moringotto was the architect and the catalyst.

I argued this point back and forth for some time, sparing myself nothing.

_Had Moringotto not killed my father, I would not have gone to war._

_Had I not shut my doors in Moringotto's face and denied him the Silmarilli, he would not have laid siege to Formenos. He would not have hated me enough to kill my father._

_Had Moringotto not coveted the Silmarilli so, he would not have come seeking them._

_Had I never made the Silmarilli, Moringotto would not have coveted them._

_He would surely have coveted something else._

_Had I not drawn steel upon my half-brother, there would have been no exile, no Formenos for my father to die defending – no summons to Taniquetil to draw me away._

_Had Moringotto not sown such discord and lies amongst the Noldor, I might not have set my sword at Nolofinwë's breast._

_Had I not been such a prideful fool as to heed Moringotto's lies…_

I continued this pattern back to the Ainulindalë, and comforted as I was to find that all evil in the world did begin with Moringotto, I knew my shield was thin at best. We were bound to each other, he and I, each feeding from the other, forging a chain to coil about Arda Marred until the world's ending. There was no escaping that. But at least I had a shield.

It was also during my time in Lord Námo's library that I came across the book that saved my soul. It was a large volume, rather presumptuously titled _The Treatise of Truth_ , and in it was contained the history of the Noldor since the Darkening of Valinor. Yet this was a history like no other, for it was told entirely through the words of those who had lived it, and it offered accounts from all possible sides of each conflict. There were condemnations and commendations, denunciations and declarations of loyalty, and woven together, they constituted the truth – the whole of it. Therein did I hear the voices of friends I'd thought long lost to me, and often did I weep to read their words in my defense. Grateful beyond imagining was I to those who ought to have been my bitterest foes – the Teleri of Alqualondë, the Sindar of Doriath, the refugees of Sirion – yet offered me not hatred but understanding. They had not forgotten, but they had made peace.

From my lady wife did I deserve the fullest measure of hate, and to her was I most indebted. Nerdanel, I found, was not only the editor of the _Treatise_ project, but also its founder.

She did not loathe me after all.

She loved me, rather, enough to compile and publish this most controversial document, and make it unmistakably plain where her allegiance lay. Through the _Treatise_ , she fought for the redemption I could not earn myself and showed me the full measure of her devotion.

She loved me enough also to take my legacy upon her shoulders and fight the wars I left unfinished. In my reading I came across references to a small, elite force made up entirely of elven women. They came to battle unlooked-for, gave their devastating aid, and disappeared again ere anyone could ascertain who they were, seeking no recognition for their part in the war on the dark forces. Nerdanel was never named as their leader, but I theorized, based on several accounts and my own imaginings, that she must be.

 _I found myself encircled and forced to my knees by a group of orcs_ , wrote one soldier of the Dagor Dagorlad, _and I was given a wound to my chest that swiftly sapped all my strength. I thought I must surely meet my end, yet at that moment, an edhel with hair of flame and a sword of light leapt between me and my assailants. The blade removed four of their heads ere they could make the slightest move, and the fifth fled in terror. Only when my savior knelt beside me and removed her plumed helm did I realize that it was a maid who had fought so beautifully in my defense. She called for two of her battlefield healers, and in the interval she held my hands in a firm, fierce grip and asked me calmly, 'Where are you from, my lad?'_

I could picture it perfectly: Nerdanel on the field with nothing but a leather jerkin and bracers between her and the blades of the enemy, cloaked in courage and hatred stronger than any armor. She wielded a sword of steel so brilliantly white that it seemed to glow, and tucked beneath her arm was the helm I wore in my duel with the Valaraukar. The gold was soot-stained and the scarlet plumes were tattered, but she held it as an ironic talisman against ill fate, a charm to bring her strength. Her combat was beautiful – fluid, brutal, infused with hatred and the cold joy of vengeance. If I imagined the scene in just the right way, I could almost believe that Nerdanel had modeled her swordplay after my own.

It was quite the fantasy, and rather unbelievable. Nerdanel had never been a leader in life – oh, strong enough to engage me in verbal duels, but only when she was driven to the uttermost fury. She hated the swords I forged for myself and my sons, and the thought of combat terrified her.

But then, in those peaceful days in Aman, she had not lost her husband and all but one of her children to war. Boundless grief such as she suffered could hardly do but change her.

It seemed that she had forged her sorrow into a weapon, rather than allowing it to break her. My wife, ever the artist, had sculpted unthinkable anguish into determination and hate, and unleashed it with deadly force upon the enemy. And it did not consume her, as it had consumed me. It tempered her. It gave her the courage to stand upon a field of battle, rally her forces, and wreak her vengeance firsthand.

In certain ways, she had ever and always been stronger than I.

I did not know if any of this was true. But real or imagined, Nerdanel's extraordinary strength nourished and healed me, and her boundless love gave me hope that salvation did yet exist.

She had fought through hell and back for me. I could do the same.

Over the _Treatise_ I lingered longer than any other volume. I spent whole days reading and re-reading the words of friend and foe alike, until the light of Vása faded from the sky and I was so exhausted that I fell asleep right there at the table. I would wake tucked into bed in my room, with no memory of having come there and tears I did not know I had shed wet upon my cheeks.

Quite some time passed in this manner. The shard of grief in my heart never vanished; it ached with the pain of a half-healed wound which will bleed afresh if jarred. It lurked like the visions I concocted in the Void, ready to set upon me at any moment.

I found I could diminish it somewhat by thinking of my sons reborn and happy in their new lives. I imagined Maitimo and Macalaurë sprawled in the grass, a picnic basket of their favorite foods and a bottle of wine between them, trading tales and laughter. I pictured Tyelkormo tackled to the ground by a litter of Huan's pups. I thought of Carnistir curled upon the rug before the fire, adorning a set of his robes with fine embroidery, his tongue poking between his lips in concentration. I saw Curufinwë at my side in the forge, taking in every movement of my hands upon the metal with his keen eyes. And I imagined the Ambarussa riding together through the glades and valleys of Aman, perhaps hunting for that night's supper.

Eventually, heartened by the _Treatise_ and all it implied, I gathered the courage to venture out into Lord Námo's gardens.

The morning on which I beheld the living world for the first time will live in my memory forevermore. It seemed an eternity since I had seen a sky so vividly blue, watched the play of light and shadow over the grass, felt a breeze caress my face. All the small things I had once taken for granted had been rendered infinitely wondrous and precious. I wanted nothing more than to cast myself down in the grass and let _life_ soak into my soul.

That morning, I swore with grateful tears upon my face that I would never again squander that most incredible of the Allfather's gifts. It was a binding vow, I knew, and it frightened me, for I had seen such oaths come to ruin firsthand. An oath of power is akin to a dragon: a warrior may ride it if he has the courage, and it will bring him great power, but he may not have the luxury of choosing where to fly or when to land. Yet this oath was not like my other, born on a wild night of torchlight and drawn swords. This was a vow for the good, and one that I knew I could keep.

Some time passed as I awaited the full return of my strength. My days were peaceful, spent reading in a shaded hammock, sitting by fountains, walking in the gardens, or delighting in the antics of the little animals who lived there. They grew used to my presence and chanced to come very close to me at times. One particular squirrel made a game of dropping acorns into my lap as I sat beneath his tree, but even this was a cause for laughter rather than annoyance.

I threw myself into anything that struck my fancy with a passion I had not known in ages. I read books in absurd numbers, made at least a cursory study of any foreign language I encountered, debated with the resident Maiar on lofty matters I had not considered since before I was wed. I even wrote music, though I doubt it could compare to Macalaurë's compositions. Sitting before Lady Vairë's concert harp, I closed my eyes and played for hours, transmuting my tangled emotions into melody. Many of my pieces were somber requiems for Arda Marred and all that had been lost, yet here and there were songs of hope. Though they were the simplest of the lot, they were also the most beautiful.

I did not seek out my mother. Though I knew she attended Lady Vairë in her weaving, my sins yet weighed too heavily for me to face her. There was, too, the persistent knowledge that I consumed Míriel Therindë's spirit by my birth, and I never quite assured myself that an infant could not be faulted for this.

I did, however, commit the story of my life to paper, from my childhood to my death. I never intended for anyone to see those pages. It was a cathartic exercise, a way to exorcise my demons when they tormented me most fiercely. I spared myself nothing in this account, not even the details of my father's murder or the First Kinslaying, yet when I finished it, I felt rather the better. My brutal honesty seemed to have relieved some of my burden, as though a small part of me had made peace with the past.

I was Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion. Both tragedies and triumphs were bound to that name, both joy and sorrow. Traitor and kinslayer, maker of curses and destroyer of peace, husband and father and creator and captain – I was all those things. There was no escaping them; they were a part of my soul.

At last I had begun to accept that.


	3. Leavetaking

In the end, my former strength returned, and Lord Námo decreed that it was time for me to rejoin my people. The prospect terrified me nearly as much as the Allfather's judgment.

"I…I do not think I am ready," I told Lord Námo upon learning of my impending release.

The Lord of Mandos smiled then, and there was more warmth in the ageless face than I had ever seen there – than I had thought possible.

"For that reason, I know you are."

Profound were his words, and I heard no doubt in them, no indication that they were spoken merely to soothe me. They were sincere.

For the first time, I considered that Lord Námo might truly care for me, and for all the _fëar_ in his charge. Had I been in a state of mind to notice, would I have seen pity or compassion in his eyes as he watched over me? Had he truly banished all emotion from his heart, or had he merely locked it away, so as not to interfere with his Eru-given duty?

"How can I face them, after all the suffering I caused?"

Still smiling gently, Lord Námo took my face between his hands, as my father had done so often in my youth. "Have you so little faith in your family, child? No matter where you go or what you do, they will always love you unconditionally – I can promise you that. As for your people, your allies have restored a great deal of honor to your name. Did you think yourself rejected and forgotten by all you once called friends? I will not deny that some folk have never forgiven you, but…well, I shall leave it for you to discover. Repay fealty with redemption."

A ghost of the helplessness I had felt in the Void returned to whisper in my ear then. "How?" I murmured, eyes downcast.

"Love them," said Lord Námo. "Your ability to love is your greatest gift."

I was silent, struck by the implications of this statement. So I was not a monster, then? Anyone who loved, truly loved, could not be evil. Perhaps I was not beyond saving.

Inexpressible gratitude to my keeper welled up warm within me for the first time since my coming to his halls. It was a strange feeling. I am often too proud for gratitude; the divine mercy of my rebirth was the first event in ages to stir thankfulness in me.

If Lord Námo sensed my gratefulness, as I am sure he did, he said nothing of it.

"Come now," he told me instead, smoothing the shoulders of my robes – pale blue elaborately brocaded with silver, the colors of the reborn. "Do you not wish to see your homeland again?"

"Will it feel like home, or has the world changed so that I no longer have a place in it?"

"You have changed also, dearest one. Your family will be proud."

"Do they wish to see me?" Guilt crept into my voice.

Lord Námo narrowed his eyes in mock severity. "I have already answered that question. If you will not believe it until you see for yourself, that is your misfortune. You were always too stubborn for your own good. Now, come. You will be less anxious once you take the first step."

It was true, and I knew it well. I could recall the recitations I gave as an apprentice, and the accompanying terror fluttering madly in my stomach fit to make me ill. It always rose to an unbearable pitch as I heard my name called and stepped out before Lord Aulë, but it vanished as soon as I spoke my first words. Even as an adult, well-established as an orator, I could never banish faint flickers of anxiety as I faced my people. It always took a few phrases to assure me that I had not lost my talent, that I was not speaking in a language no one could understand. My return to the outside world, I suspected, would be much the same. It would take adjustment, perhaps years' worth, but I would adjust.

Thus, with my nod of assent, Lord Námo led me to the gates of his halls. They stood in the gardens, I saw then. I had never noticed them before, for I had never wandered so close to the borders of my keeper's lands. I had never tried to escape. Looking upon the delicate golden bars, the only things standing between me and my release, I realized that over the course of my sojourn in Mandos, I had ceased to see myself as a prisoner. Mayhaps I had never been one – in the Void, certainly, but not in the halls.

If not a prisoner, what was I to Lord Námo? Would he have stopped me if I had tried to flee through those gates before he declared it my time? I did not know, and likely I never would.

The Doomsman retreated from me a pace. In the morning sunlight his silver robes appeared as shimmering and insubstantial as mist. I looked at the gates again, thought how little it would take to push open those golden bars and put my past forever behind me. How little it would take to change everything I had known until now.

Suddenly, I was terrified again. Try as I might to raise my hand to the gates, I could not. My arm was heavy at my side and strangely unresponsive. I realized I was trembling. I had never fallen to trembling in my previous life, save in those dark days after my father was slain. Ever and always had I been sure, steady, proud.

For better or worse, the Void had stolen much of those things from me.

In a last effort to delay, I asked my keeper, "Do my oath and my crimes not consign me to death until the world's ending? How is it that you may release me now?"

"Oh, child, do you truly believe that you made an oath so binding that the Allfather himself has no power over it?"

For a moment, I was tempted to reply that an oath such as mine must be unbreakable even to the Allfather – I had called Him in witness, after all – but I remained silent. Having felt His judgment, I was willing to believe in His infinite power.

"As to your crimes, you have been judged and forgiven by the highest Judge of all. Redemption is your task now. How do you expect to earn it locked away here?"

He made a fair point, as usual. It was difficult to accept, as usual.

"You will have guidance along the way, of course. Be not afraid."

Suddenly, Lord Námo's pleasant countenance darkened, and he lowered his voice.

"There is something else as well. There have been signs, you see – I doubt they are visible to you as of yet, but they will be – that the Last Battle is drawing near. Why do you think the halls have been emptying steadily, especially in the past Age? Soon there will be a war, and we will need you – all of you – if we are to win. We must win, for the fate of our world depends on it. And you, my child, have gifts given to no other –"

"So my people and I are to be weapons in your war games?" I burst out, anger flaring within me as a fire devours dry kindling.

"It isn't so simple –"

"That's all we ever were to you – pawns to fight your battles while you cower behind the Pelóri and wring your hands!"

"Certainly not."

"You have restored us to life so we can die again!"

If my keeper's face was grave before, it was absolutely black now. He knelt so that his face was on a level with mine, taking my wrists in a firm grasp. I was stunned into silence. Never had I seen him display such emotion.

"Do not think for a moment that my brethren and I do not wish you all the happiness in the world," he said in a low, ardent voice. "I do not send you back to die, I send you back to reclaim all the joy of your former life. Had you any idea how much we love you impossible, beautiful children, you would not make such accusations."

Lord Námo paused just long enough to allow me a rebuttal. My silence was surely damning.

"Yes, war will come," he went on. "Had you permitted me to finish, you would know that we do not intend to use you as weapons. You will be of great aid to us, all of you, if you choose to fight, and we will leave that choice to your sense of honor and duty. Know that if you do choose to go to battle, you will not be abandoned. Things have changed a great deal, my bright one. These are not like earlier days, when the Valar were commanded never to interfere in the affairs of the Children. Nay, this is a war for all Arda, and are we not part of Arda? It is very likely we will join you in the fight, and if we do, we will do all in our power save defying the Allfather's will to keep you from death."

"Can you promise me that?" I asked, like a little child suspicious of his parents' intentions.

"I give you my word," said my keeper, "and I have never once broken my word." He stood, smiling gently once more. "Consider as well, Curufinwë, that the Last Battle and the preceding war may present you with many opportunities for redemption – and perhaps to meet Gothmog again."

Upon hearing the name of my slayer, my right hand went reflexively to my side, as though to clasp a sword-hilt.

Vengeance, that fickle and powerful goddess. After all I had lost in her name, it seemed I longed for her still. The word stirred the embers of an ancient madness in me, nearly extinguished but yet alive, ready to blaze upwards with one gust from a bellows.

A grim smile crossed my lips. "But of course. I can't forget Gothmog, can I?"

"No indeed, though you may have competition."

"Then we shall slay him together: all his former victims. Is revenge any less sweet when divided?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," said my keeper elusively. "You may decide when the time comes, and I pray that you do not find the wine of vengeance so pleasing that you become drunk upon it and forget all you have learned here. Come, let us speak no more of this. You have friends and kin to return to, and I intend you to do it before the night is out."

I waited for the wave of anxiety to wash over me, and it did – but not so much as before.

"I still do not think myself ready," I said, "but nor do I think I can delay any longer."

"Yes, for all your orator's skill, you will never sway my decision," said Lord Námo, indulgence in his eyes. He had irises of a beautiful dark amber I had never encountered in nature. It put me in mind of hot cider, or tea mixed with honey.

"Is there anything I ought to know ere I leave you?" I asked.

"Aye, there is. Be aware that it often takes the newly released some time to accustom themselves to the world, especially those who have been with me many years. You may feel distinctly out of place for a while, overwhelmed by the world that has suddenly been opened to you. Expect to tire easily and seek rest and solitude often. You may also be less resilient to hardship than you once were, particularly when confronting your past. You will strengthen with time."

He laid a hand alongside my cheek and went on.

"Know also, my dearest one, that you are loved. There are those who have never forgiven you, and they may seek to bring suffering upon you in return. Do not let them. You have served your sentence, and your suffering is ended. Spend time with your family and your allies and take comfort in them, for they will never turn against you. And nor, I should add, will I."

He bent his head to kiss my brow and turned me to face the golden gates again.

"Now, off with you. Do not deny Formenos the chance to set off the fireworks they've been collecting for this very purpose."

Laughing gently, frightened but wonderfully eager, I asked, "Where will I go?"

"Wherever your heart takes you, my bright Fëanáro. May the Allfather's blessing go with you."

I glanced through the gates. A gentle dirt path lay beyond, lined by shady trees and dappled with sunlight. I had always loved the mingling of sunlight and shadow that can only come of a late afternoon in the woods.

Surely this could not be so terrible.

A smile on my lips, I gave the gates a gentle push. They swung open easily, silently. The metal was comfortingly sun-warmed against my hands. I realized then that they had no lock.

I did not look back.

I closed my eyes, and for once, I did not think.

The only thing to exist in my world was the beating of my heart.


	4. Homecoming

Lord Námo's gardens are meant to prepare the reembodied for their first terrifying steps into new life. They fall woefully short.

Behind the golden gates, there is neither hunger nor thirst nor tiredness. Awareness of this comes slowly, but when it arrives, it sets off a chain reaction. Colors appear dull and faded; the world shimmers at the edges. Solid objects swim as if reality is no longer certain. Restlessness sets in. It becomes clear that this is a place of mere existence, not of _life_. Life lies beyond.

When these symptoms appear, Lord Námo deems his charges fit for release.

I never developed the characteristic restiveness; perhaps I would have, had I not left behind the legacy of ruin I now had to face. Still, even for me, in the end the gardens began to shimmer and blur as if threatening to dissolve.

The path leading from the Halls did indeed sink away into darkness shortly after I set my feet upon it. I could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. For one terrifying moment, I thought myself back in the Void, the emptiness filling my _fëa_ and threatening to strip away my being. Was this some sort of cruel joke? Had Lord Námo promised me release and redemption only to send me back to my prison?

But then, a red glow bloomed beyond my closed lids.

There was light!

I opened my eyes to a burst of color so vivid that I nearly shut them again. Nothing in the gardens, with their washed-out landscapes and flickering realities, could compare to the scene before me now. Every sight, every sensation was so heightened as to be painful.

The grass beneath me, every blade a different shade and uniquely speckled with dew, prickled through my robes. The wind stirred through this meadow like waves on a sea, raising flurries of insects and the smell of dry warmth. The sky above was a delicate shade of amber streaked with rosy pink, and the air was gentle and sweet. The first fireflies of evening drifted lazily through the air, disseminating their coded light-messages.

There were sounds, too, coming in an overwhelming rush. Insects chirped and buzzed as they strummed their own legs. Birds called in myriad liquid voices. Grass rustled dryly, whispering of things only nature knows.

For a moment, it was too much. I put my head in my hands, wanting to block out this assault on my senses. I found myself wishing I were back in Mandos, back on the misty dais with the candelabra, where everything was gray and calm. There was nothing to engulf me there, nothing to frighten me, nothing to –

Nothing. There was nothing there. Nothing but my own pain.

I had had enough of that.

Holding this thought firmly in my mind, I lifted my head by slow degrees.

The rush of sensory perception was not quite so intense this time. I found I could study my surroundings more carefully, sift through the riotous tapestry of sights and sounds and smells. As I did so, I felt a slow smile spread across my face.

No, I did not seek nothingness after all. This was infinitely preferable. Vital energy thrummed through everything around me, like a runner poised to start a race or a musician in the silence before a song. The world was brimful of potential, beauty, and everyday magic. Everything in the meadow, from the tallest trees to the tiniest sparrows and insects, seemed to be lifting its voice in exultation:

_Feel my spirit rise, for I am alive! I live!_

I felt my _fëa_ strain at its bonds, as if the feeble shell of my body could scarcely contain such joy. I wished so dearly to join my voice to that chorus of life, but I found I did not quite know the language. I had forgotten it, it seemed, in the course of my long absence.

This realization did not distress me for long. There was plenty here to teach me how to live again. I bowed my head in inexpressible gratitude to the One who had delivered me and given me such a wondrous chance.

As the initial shock wore off, I began to take better stock of my surroundings. I was partway up a steep hillside, and it seemed its slope was known to me.

I got shakily to my feet and beheld a glimmering white city far above at the crest of the hill. Cottages and farmhouses were scattered over large plots of land outside the walls, but within, the dwellings were larger, finer, and nearer to each other. An intricate web of glittering streets and delicate white stairs bound them all together. The largest dwelling of all was the palace at the city center, courtyards and gardens and shaded arcades arrayed around it, a graceful tower at each of the four corners. These towers were all dwarfed by the spire of pearl and gleaming marble that reared from the pinnacle of the city, aspiring to touch the firmament.

The Mindon Eldaliéva. I would have known it anywhere, and the palace, too.

I was on the hill of Túna, and the city of my birth lay above.

I had closed my eyes, and my heart had brought me to Tirion.

My most recent memories of the city were not happy ones. The Tirion of my later years was poisoned, full of conspiracies and schemes and Moringotto's well-crafted lies. It was the site of my Oath and my rebellion. I could not forget these things, and yet the Tirion before me now felt entirely different. Music was drifting through the gates, along with snatches of laughter and chatter. Lights burned silver in all the windows and courtyards. I even caught the sweet scent of the roses planted in the grottos, the first flowers I ever offered to Nerdanel. No, this was not a city shrouded in suspicion. This was the Tirion of my childhood, a place of light and beauty. The Tirion that was home.

I looked up at the great beacon lamp burning in the Mindon.

 _Násië_ , I thought, and set off for the city on legs that trembled with a mix of terror and elation.

I departed from Tirion a mad king thirsting for vengeance. I returned to it now a pilgrim at the end of a very long journey, burning with a much softer flame. Still, none of my people knew how much I had changed, or indeed that I had been reborn, so I kept the hood of my silver cloak over my face despite the warm evening. The last thing I wanted was to startle anyone, or to attract the gaze of the enemies I surely had here.

The city's great gates stood open, bronze overlays flaring white-gold in the sunset. This made me faintly uneasy. I knew all too well that the Dark Lord made a habit of striking unwary cities in times of festival, as it seemed to be now. If the Last Battle truly was coming as Lord Námo had said, why such carelessness? Perhaps the threat was not yet so near as to require the closing of the gates. Even so, I noticed that many of the revelers wore daggers, strapped to their upper arms in elegant leather sheaths or poorly concealed beneath swirling fabric. It seemed little more than a symbolic gesture of readiness, but the Valar would never have allowed it in my time. How things had changed since my exile!

It was the feast of the summer solstice, I learned later, and Tirion was beautifully arrayed for festival. Silver lights were strung between trees and wrapped around trunks; some even shone from the waters of fountains. The air was rich with the mingled smells of many foods, and music and dancing lay around every corner. Each staircase and courtyard seemed to feature its own informal concert. Elsewhere, revelers were gathered to tell lively stories or set off little bundles of enchanted fireworks. It all seemed such fun, but I could not imagine joining in myself. Too much had changed since I last walked these streets. I knew only who I had been, not who I might become in this new world.

Just when I had begun to feel rather lost and overwhelmed again, I came across a group of Noldorin nobles, seated around a fountain with chilled drinks in their hands. I hardly had time to recognize them, for my eye was immediately drawn to the _nér_ in the middle of the group. My heart stuttered as my soul flooded with emotions too deep to name.

In my mind, he was dead in a courtyard in Formenos. The tree above him had been shattered, and sap bled onto his too-pale skin. A dark wound at his chest, a silence where there should have been a heartbeat…

Atar.

I shook my head, forcing myself to see him as he was now and not as he had been. There was no blood, I told myself firmly, and his color was healthy. He was as regal as ever, clad in deep blue, long dark hair swept back by a circlet I made for him in my youth. Though he looked entirely at ease, he too wore a knife at his waist.

I could not approach him, and yet I could not stay away. For so long I had ached to rest my head on his shoulder and hear his steady heartbeat. When he was taken from me, the world broke apart. I was cast adrift on a strange sea with no lights to guide me back home and no one to wake me from my nightmares. Now that I had the opportunity to end the nightmare at last, I became a child again, longing to be secure in his arms.

But…did Atar want to see me? After all that had come to pass, would he still call me his son? I had done such terrible things, and in his name, no less. Shame had always been a stranger to me, but I had learned it well since my death.

At last I managed to take a full breath. With that, I stepped forward, hood still cast over my face. I could not bring myself to reveal my identity just yet.

I made a bow, keeping my voice low enough that it would not be immediately recognizable. "I bid you good evening, Your Majesty."

"Good evening, sir," said my father amiably. His eyes took in my robes, the pale blue and silver of the Reborn. I thought he might suspect who I was, but he said nothing of it yet. "Have you come from Mandos?"

"I have, Your Majesty. I was reembodied some time ago, but I was released just tonight."

"Then I rejoice for you, son of the Eldar, and welcome you home. You could not have a better night for your return. Is this your first time in Tirion?"

It was, in a way. I was seeing it with new eyes, and I was not sure what my place in it would be.

"Not…exactly," I went on hesitantly. "I've been away for a very long time, yet I know this city well, for I was born and bred here."

Suddenly, I could stand it no longer. It was agonizing to think Atar might reject me, to think I might lose him a second time, but I needed him to see me. It had been so long since we last stood face to face. If this was to be the last time we were together, I wanted to fix every detail of his face in my mind, and I wanted him to know how deeply I had mourned him.

Steeling myself, I let my hood fall back from my face. "I was – and am – your son."

To his credit, Atar did no more than turn very white and clutch his neighbor's arm. I saw in his face that he had guessed my identity, but he had not allowed himself to hope he might be right.

"Curufinwë," he breathed. His expression was carefully neutral, but his voice held more emotion than I had ever thought one word could contain. The sound of my _ataressë_ in his voice awakened ages of loss and yearning and a new, exquisitely sharp hope.

There were so many things I wanted to say, and my chest was too tight for any of them. Thoughts tumbled over and over in my mind like waves on a rocky shore: _I should have been there, I should have died with you, I should have died in your place, I am nothing without you, I dishonored you, I loved you, I love you so much._

My voice broke as I tried to speak. "Oh, Atar…have you disowned me?"

It was just as well that I could say no more, for the next moment I was held in his arms, my face pressed to his shoulder. I felt tears sting my eyes, but I did not try to stop them. The courtiers whispering around us did not matter now. This was exactly where I belonged, and for a moment all was right with the world.

"Is that any way to greet your father?" Atar murmured. "You are my firstborn son. I love you unconditionally, and I will love you for as long as time endures. There is nothing you have done or could do that will change that."

He was stroking my hair as though I were still a young child, and I accepted it gratefully. My breath was coming in shuddering heaves, but I could feel an old, aching wound beginning to heal even as he held me. His heart, I noticed mistily, was beating quite as hard as mine.

He drew back and took me by the arms so he could see my face. Looking into his eyes, my spirit trembling with joy, I realized belatedly that I felt much the same now as when I was wrapped in the Allfather's embrace.

I composed myself with a supreme effort and brushed at my damp cheeks. "But…the things I did…"

"I'm quite aware of the things you did." His voice was still warm, but his gray eyes had hardened a bit, as they always did when he scolded me. "I grant that any king would have struggled to rule under your circumstances, but I never thought you would cast all honor and compassion aside. Mark me, Curufinwë, I will not give you the crown of the Noldor again until you prove yourself worthy of it."

I nodded weakly. My ancient pride did not so much as stir at his denial of the crown, for I hardly trusted myself to bear it again. How could I? I had learned to my cost that I was not strong enough to weather real hardship.

"But disown you, _yonya_?" Atar shook his head. He seemed to think me very silly for suggesting such a thing, though I could not share his opinion. His love for me had always blinded him, and he had not witnessed my misdeeds firsthand. "It would not change the past. You have served your sentence, and many things have healed since you left us. What I want now is for you to show me how much you've grown. What's done is done, but you can still build a better future."

I wasn't at all sure I could do that. I hardly knew who I was in this new life, much less what I wanted to do with it. All I could tell for certain was that I did not want to do any more harm. That was a good place to start, wasn't it?

Atar laid a hand alongside my face, and I leaned gratefully into the touch. I hadn't realized how starved for gentleness I had become.

"No more tears from you tonight, Curufinwë," was his affectionate decree, "save for tears of joy."

With that, heedless of his courtiers, he lifted me off my feet and spun me once around as he had when I was a boy. There was applause and gentle laughter as he set me back down. Despite my fears, I could not help but join in. I was alive, I was home, and my father loved me: what reason had I to be sad?

Atar released me with a kiss to my brow. "We can speak more of the future when you've had a chance to adjust. For now, it's good to hear you laugh. You always were too solemn for your own good."

"I think too much when it makes no difference and too little when it makes all the difference in the world," I said with a rueful smile.

Now that the agonizing fear of rejection had left me, I considered more carefully the group of courtiers I had theretofore ignored. I knew several of them, I realized, among them Lord Nólaheru, my father's chief adviser. I had known him all my life, and after the Darkening, he became my surrogate father. Indeed, it was he who found me half-dead in the woods outside Formenos after I fled the sight of Atar's lifeless body. Many things might have been different had I allowed myself to lean on him. His counsel was always honest, and he had no patience for court games. His smile now was as kindly and genuine as it had been since my childhood.

My blood ran cold, however, when I saw Nolofinwë standing beside him.

He was much as I remembered, black-haired and gray-eyed just as I was. It had always irked me that we so resembled one another, for I did not want to admit that he was truly a son of Finwë. There was a subtle difference in our eyes, however: his were the gray of enduring mountains, while mine were the bright silver of new-forged steel. Perhaps this reflected the difference in our temperaments.

Tonight, he had exchanged his usual blue and silver for robes of deep crimson embroidered with gold. He was wearing my colors, and I his. There was some significance to this strange reversal, I was sure, though I could not make sense of it then.

He wore his courtier's mask well, but I could read the lines of tension in his face, as I knew he could in mine. The shadow of my ancient treachery arose and settled itself mockingly between us. I could all but hear Moringotto's laughter rumble from the Void: _It will divide you always, and divided I will always conquer._

I pushed his long-ago lies from my mind with a great effort and schooled my voice into neutrality.

"Good evening, Nolofinwë."

"And to you, Fëanáro. How have you found rebirth thus far?"

"It can't have been more than an hour, but I've seen already that Lord Námo's gardens are a pale shadow of the outside world. Even the sunsets there at the Uttermost West can't compare to this."

"The vividness is a bit painful, I remember. It eases with time."

It was as if nothing at all had changed. We were dancing our old dance, he and I, exchanging courtly pleasantries that concealed our deeper tensions. The air between us was all but crackling.

Atar seemed to sense this. "Why don't you two find somewhere quiet to talk? I'm sure you have much to discuss."

His tone was light enough, but there was a command beneath: _You will lay the past to rest. There will be no more animosity between my sons._

Though I knew Atar could never be dissuaded once he took a thought into his mind, I had to try. Nolofinwë and I had done little more than stand beside each other, and already we were both taut with mistrust; what good could possibly come of leaving us alone together? More than that, I did not feel at all prepared to speak of the past. Ages had passed, yet it felt as raw as if it had happened yesterday. Time in Mandos is strange.

"Atar, I would rather stay with you…" I began, but faltered at the steel in his eyes. He was the Noldóran now, not my father, and his word was absolute.

He clasped my arm to take a bit of the sting away. "I'll see you again soon, I promise." _I do this because I love you_ , was the unspoken addition.

He must have known something about Nolofinwë that I did not, for I could not possibly see how this would help me. Even so, ages of separation had not diminished my trust in my father. He had always sought to bring me healing. Even in marrying Indis – his one and only treachery, in my eyes – he had hoped to give me a mother.

Well, I had returned to seek reconciliation. Although the opportunity had presented itself far sooner that I would have liked, I would take it. My time in Mandos might have softened my spirit, but it had not made me craven.

I looked back at Atar. _Go on_ , said his eyes.

I allowed myself one steadying breath, a count of five, before turning to my half-brother.

"Walk with me, then, Prince Nolofinwë."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> násië – Amen


	5. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrestled with this chapter when I first wrote it back in 2014, and I wrestled with this revamped version, too. These two just have too much to say to each other for one chapter. My biggest challenge with this story - the fact that so much time has passed off-screen and people and circumstances have changed - also really reared its head in this segment, and I hope the result is effective!

Silence lay heavily between us as we walked, in stark contrast to the music all around. For a distraction, I listened, seeking patterns in the songs as I would in language. Most were lively reels, but here and there I caught snatches of darker melodies, delivered in hard-edged voices that did not quite suit the liquid Quenya words. At first I thought this must be a dialect that had evolved since my death, but no…there was something familiar about it.

"I can't place her accent," I remarked as we passed a courtyard where a dark-haired _nís_ was weaving a song of impending battle. My voice was perhaps too light, but I could not let Nolofinwë know my unease.

"She must be Exilic." My half-brother matched the false brightness of my tone word for word. "Many of the Noldor who returned from Beleriand speak Quenya with a Sindarin accent…at least, that's the linguistic explanation. Most folk believe that sorrow hardens their voices. It's said that Exilic singers can draw out their listeners' sadness, for Exiles understand better than any the full measure of sorrow and loss."

And I played a principal role in that understanding. Dear-bought songs indeed.

"Do you believe that as well, Nolofinwë?" I asked softly.

He kept his eyes forward so I could not read his expression. "I do."

I drew my hood over my face again as we passed through the crowded market district. Beneath brightly-colored awnings, food vendors' stalls filled the air with smoke and the smells of meat skewers, baked fish, roasted nuts, and every kind of fruit. Despite my disquiet, I felt my stomach rumble ravenously. I had not eaten since my re-embodiment, I realized dimly. In Lord Námo's gardens, there had been no need.

At last, we came to a shaded park far enough from the city center as to be empty, and there we halted. There were no silver fairy lights here, only stately oaks and deepening shadows. We sat for a while on the broad rim of a fountain, listening to the splashing water. In the interim, caustic emotions bubbled up within me. Some were old and firmly associated with Nolofinwë – envy, insecurity, suspicion – but there was guilt and shame as well, burning like bile at the back of my throat. I almost wished Nolofinwë would speak first, allow me to respond rather than initiate (and that was a strange wish: I had never shied from starting an argument). But no: he was watching me carefully, no doubt looking for signs of madness.

Soon I could bear it no longer. The sound of the fountain had begun to grate on my nerves. I had never been patient or prone to idleness, and ages of imprisonment had not changed that.

"I never thought you would cross it!" I heard myself say before I could think of anything more tactful.

He raised an eyebrow. "You were wrong."

"I had to protect myself, Nolofinwë."

"From what? From the Ice? From us?"

"From both. You know what it was like after Alqualondë –"

"You put yourself in that position. If you feared treachery, you brought it upon yourself when you told your soldiers to take the Telerin ships!"

"To take the ships, not turn the harbor red!"

"You felt the tension and the fear in our people, Fëanáro; you must have known what might happen when you gave that order –"

"And you could have done better in my place, in my circumstances?"

"Yes, I most certainly could have! I've always had a cooler head than y –"

"Have you? Then why not turn back from the Ice? I meant for you to –"

"To prove I was just as craven as you thought?"

"To make the sensible choice and go back to Valinor!"

"You dare speak to me of sensibility? I decided to cross the Ice, yes, but who left me with that choice? _Who left me there?_ You and your madness!"

"I couldn't feel anything, Nolofinwë, anything but despair! Do you have any idea how…when Atar…what it did to –"

"You assume it did nothing to me!"

We were both on our feet now. I knew what we must look like: chests heaving, faces twisted, eyes bright with pain. Neither he nor I knew how the argument had escalated so quickly, but now that the old hurts had been spoken, the indignant fury was draining out of us both. In its wake, a cold, clammy poison seeped into our veins, sapping our strength. We sank back to the rim of the fountain as one.

Nolofinwë shook his head, tucking one of his braids back into place. "We're doing it again."

I steadied my harsh breathing with a great effort. "Behaving like enemies."

He was right, of course. Neither Lord Námo nor Atar would have been pleased with what we had just done: reopening ancient wounds, falling back into old insecurities. If the Dark Lord returned tonight, he would find us still divided.

When next I spoke, my voice shook despite my best efforts. "Call a truce, then, Nolofinwë, and say what you will."

He looked at me strangely then, as if uncertain what to make of me. "Unproductive it may be, but I'm almost relieved to hear you fight. When you spoke to Atar this evening, asking if he had disowned you… I hardly recognized you. Now I know Lord Námo has not entirely destroyed the Fëanáro I remember."

I scuffed uneasily at the grass with the toe of my boot. A little sparrow hopped by, pecking about for seed, and I found myself wishing my own troubles were so simple. "For good or for ill, I wonder."

"We shall see." He took a moment to compose himself. His face was a mask again, and I could read nothing of his feelings. "I've had a long time to think about what I might say to you when you returned," he began. "There are two things I want to know most of all. First, I want to know why you broke your promise."

Of course: Losgar. I had thought about this many times in Mandos, and the answer was always simple and terrible.

I drew a breath to banish the nervous quaver from my voice. I found I could not look him in the eyes.

"I told you just now: necessity. After Alqualondë, I suspected your people might be desperate and sickened enough to kill me. Yes, I brought treachery upon myself, but I desired vengeance above all things, and for that I had to be alive."

"Then it was self-preservation?"

"Your people never bore me any great love, Nolofinwë. I could hardly go to Beleriand with the greater part of my army waiting for the chance to put you on the throne. Incidentally, how close were you to pushing me off an ice floe and making it look like an accident?"

He scoffed. "Your suspicions were not entirely unfounded."

Even now, the thought of sinking into the bitter chilled-steel waters of the Helcaraxë made me shiver. I had always feared drowning.

Nolofinwë said nothing for a long moment. When at last I looked up at him, his face was tight with something I could not quite name.

"Did you think of us?" he asked.

"Not often, I'm afraid. Not until Mandos."

"No, of course you didn't. Did you hope we would die?" His voice was as cold and hard as the Ice of which we spoke.

"No, if you can believe it," I said heavily. "I hoped you would turn back and trouble me no further. Arafinwë already had. When I burned the ships, I fully expected you to judge the Ice impassable, as I had, and go back to Valinor."

Nolofinwë nodded slowly, releasing a shaky breath. His hands were white-knuckled in his lap. "Your sons have told me much the same, but I wanted to hear it from you. I couldn't stand to think that my own brother wanted us d– Well, no matter. You underestimated me, Fëanáro, and my capacity to be just as stubborn as you are."

I sensed that my answer to this last question was very important to him, though I could not imagine why. It did not change the outcome. Still, he was right: stubbornness ran through all the descendants of Finwë. Though Nolofinwë was famed for his wisdom, was never as gentle as his younger brother.

"How would you have fought your war," he asked presently, "if we _had_ gone back? We were the greater part of the Noldorin host."

I let out a soft, humorless laugh. "My vision was…extraordinarily limited. I was certain you would see what a waste of lives the crossing would –"

"I hardly think you ought to speak of wasting lives," Nolofinwë cut in sharply. His eyes had gone steely again.

Instantly, I wanted to retaliate. _I knew what death looked like long before you did_ , I wanted to say. _I grew up in its shadow. I kept vigil with my mother in Lórien. Then Atar was taken from me in the most brutal, cold-blooded way. No, I knew exactly what might befall my people when I began my rebellion, and it was not lightly that I took them with me._

It was also for this reason that I required no one to swear my Oath as a sign of fealty. When the Oath appeared in the histories, the speaker was always "we," not "I," but that was an alteration. When I first spoke those accursed words, they were meant for me and me alone. My greatest regret was allowing my sons to swear as well.

None of this changed anything.

"That was ill-said," I muttered instead. The flare of my wounded pride was almost physical. I knew my half-brother could see my shoulders stiffen.

Nolofinwë blinked at me for a moment. I never yielded ground or admitted even the slightest wrongdoing to him, and he knew it. I could almost hear his incredulous thought: _What did Lord Námo do to you?_ Then the shutters were drawn again, and he hid his feelings away. That had always been his way, and it had always aggravated me. I much preferred to drag an argument into the clear light of day and be done with it. In my later years, Nolofinwë's reticence became a threat. If my half-brother did not make his true feelings known, I reasoned, how could I be sure he did not covet my birthright and my father's love?

But this time Nolofinwë had not entirely composed himself. There was a bright light of hurt in his eyes, and his voice held a note of old, old desperation.

"Do you want to know why I made the crossing, Fëanáro? It was pride, partly. I did not want to give you the satisfaction of seeing me turn back in the face of adversity. More than that, it was vengeance. Do you think I mourned Atar any less than you did? Do you think I hated Morgoth any less than you did? Do you think I had any more faith in the Valar than you did? Vengeance sustained me across the Ice, as much as my hatred for you." All this came in a rush, as if he were purging something poisonous.

"So you did hate me."

"For a time. I was sorely disappointed when I reached Beleriand and found you dead."

I could not suppress a grim smile. "Disappointed that Gothmog got to me first?"

He sighed. "No, but there were several things I would have liked to hear from you."

An apology was undoubtedly among them. I was not certain I could give it to him even now: not because I had no sorrow, but because my much-weakened pride was still just strong enough to stifle the words.

Mercifully, Nolofinwë spared me for the moment. "I wanted to hear why you shut out the people who could have helped you after the Darkening. That was the second thing I decided to ask you, should you ever return."

It seemed a strange question to accord such significance, though no doubt he had his reasons. I was hardly fit to answer it. The Darkening was a blur of terror and unendurable loss from which my mind shied even now. I could scarcely think of those events without shaking, much less tease apart the tangled web of associated thoughts and feelings. Nolofinwë was right, however: I had passed the Long Night in silent, solitary despair. I was hardly capable of speech until the fire of rebellion revived my soul, and even then, I laid my plans alone.

I glanced at the deep tree-shadows and tried not to think of another darkness which was not merely the antithesis of light, but the refutation.

"I hardly know, Nolofinwë," I said weakly. "That night…it hollowed me out down to the soul and left me with nothing but grief. Nothing else could touch me. I could scarcely make out my sons' voices, though I know they spoke to me. It was like being…well, I won't say frozen. No doubt you know more about that than I do. I'll say only that everything good in me died with Atar."

There was a strange glitter in Nolofinwë's eyes now that might have been tears, though I was sure it was only a trick of the sunset.

"I wonder," he murmured, "how many things might have changed had you let someone hold you and comfort you and give you counsel until you were strong enough to stand on your own. You might not have been wholly lost. But you trapped yourself in your own mind until you were delirious, and then you tore everything apart as you had been torn apart."

It was a fair point. In my youth, I was often prone to brooding, and it never made anything better. After the Darkening, driven by the Enemy's exquisite lies, I carried that tendency to its final extreme.

"You might wonder," Nolofinwë went on, "why I ask you this question. It's because I understand everything else – why you always resented me, why you thought me such a threat – but I cannot understand why you turned away from your own family in your hour of need. Have you any idea how dearly I hoped Atar's death might bring us together? I never wanted your crown, I only wanted to help you rise from your despair and lead our people. You could have been such a light for the world."

I could not suppress a sudden flare of anger. "How easy it is for you to condemn me, when you did not feel what I felt!" I snapped in a voice as brittle as a frost-covered branch. "I was an orphan, the first in all Aman. What did you know of that?"

This time, Nolofinwë refused the lure of my anger, though his words were no less fervent for their softness. "I do not condemn you for your grief. I only wish things had been different. Perhaps I could not truly understand your circumstances, but I shared your desire for vengeance. We are not so unalike, you know."

He twisted around on the rim of the fountain as if noticing the trickling water for the first time. He seemed to be considering the sound of it as he trailed his hand through the spray. When next he spoke, it was as if his mind had taken him somewhere very far away.

"We died the same way in the end, standing alone against impossible odds," he went on.

"There was much more of nobility in your death than in mine, Nolofinwë."

"Hush. I thought of you a great deal in the hours before my duel with Morgoth. As much as I tried to remember the kinslayer, I could only recall the elder brother who sat with me through a rainstorm when I climbed that tree…"

He trailed off, leaving the memory to drift hazily to the surface of my own mind. I had been young at the time, newly apprenticed to Mahtan, and he had given me a few days' leave to visit Atar at the palace. I was hurrying to get out of the rain when I happened to glance up at a tree in the palace courtyard, and there sat tiny Nolofinwë, cradled in the crook of a branch. He and I were not so estranged then, and my budding protective instincts, which I would carry into fatherhood, overrode my resentment. I found myself unable to leave him.

By some miracle, I was able to scramble up to Nolofinwë's perch, but it quickly became apparent that I could not climb down through the rain-slick branches with a sobbing child on one arm. Thus, I stayed with him until the rain abated. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel his wet little head pressed against my chest, trusting with the surety of youth that I would not let him fall.

"How have you remembered that through all these years?" I murmured, unable to keep a hint of wonder from my voice.

"It's important to me." Nolofinwë was still trailing his hand through the fountain pool, still far away. "That was the Fëanáro I held in my heart as I rode to Morgoth's gates: the Fëanáro who was my brother, the Fëanáro I always admired. For the sake of all the good that once was in you, I hoped you would witness my battle and know yourself avenged."

Despite myself, I felt my breath catch. In Mandos, I had read accounts in which Nolofinwë was said to have channeled my spirit in his final moments. This was almost certainly impossible, as I was locked in the Void at the time, but I had indeed seen his duel with Moringotto in a vision. I was in no fit state to contemplate this until I was released into the Halls of Awaiting, where Lord Námo's ministrations healed my weakened spirit. Then indeed did I feel a spark of fierce joy at the thought of Nolofinwë's battle, mingled with envy though it was.

Now I considered all this again, along with everything Nolofinwë had told me tonight. I came to a very strange conclusion.

Nolofinwë had died to save his people, certainly, but…had he also died for me? Had he tried to give me peace by doing what I so desperately wanted to do?

I felt more like a monster by the second.

Nolofinwë seemed to sense this, for he laid a hand firmly on my arm. "We all made our choices in those days, and none of us can change them now. Eru knows how many times I've wished I could have compelled my people to turn back to Valinor. I would have crossed the Ice alone if I had to, but… Well, that sort of thinking will only drive you mad."

I swallowed hard, staring fixedly at the blades of grass at the base of the fountain. When I spoke, my voice was strained.

"Far better I had died with Atar in Formenos. Words mean nothing now, but…you can't imagine how many times I've wished I could go back and cross the Ice with you. How many times I've wished none of it ever happened at all."

Though the regrets were deeply felt, they were awkward on my tongue. Apologizing had never been easy for me, and I had not strictly done so now. Still, I had spoken in the proper spirit. That was a start. Perhaps the rest would come in time.

Presently, Nolofinwë gave me a long, searching stare. I was sickeningly certain that he doubted my sincerity. When he spoke, however, it was not to accuse me of dishonesty.

He sat back, one hand on his hip. "Well, you haven't exactly told me you are indeed sorry for what happened, but I've waited ages; a bit more time hardly makes a difference. 'Words change nothing,' Fëanáro? What sort of loremaster, what sort of Noldo are you? Do you know how long I've wanted to hear you express anything like remorse, as you did just now? No, it does not change the past, but it gives me hope that _you yourself_ have changed, and for the good. Perhaps we can yet be allies."

"You want me for your ally, Nolofinwë?" I said bitterly. "Have you lost your vaunted wisdom?"

"I hope not. You have work to do before I can know for sure. But first, you must promise me something."

Surely I owed him that much. "Go on."

"Promise me there will be no more conspiracies, no more obsessions, and no more violence. Promise you will not push away the people who only want to help you."

"You ask me to prove I've changed."

"Exactly."

None of Nolofinwë's requests, I noticed, pertained directly to him, except possibly the last. They were all for the good of the Noldor.

 _Insufferably noble as always, half-brother._ Where once this thought would have been mocking, now it was tinged with warmth.

Nolofinwë extended his right hand, just as he had at Manwë's feast of reconciliation. The parallel was surely significant, an unfinished echo come down through time to find its fulfillment.

Perhaps it was indeed time to heal.

"Moringotto interrupted us last time, didn't he?" The sardonicism was nothing but a veil for the confused mix of sorrow, uncertainty, wounded pride, and hope within me, and he must have known it. "Very well: these things I promise you, Nolofinwë."

I took his forearm in a soldier's grip, and he clasped mine in return: a gesture of mutual respect and equality. No, we were not fully reconciled; we could never have come to that in one night, but there was reason to hope. I saw him more clearly now, and I suspected that clarity would only increase in the days to come. Already, our feud in the days of the Trees seemed very petty when weighed against war and death and Void.

"I shall hold you to it," said Nolofinwë steadily. "If we begin as allies, we may yet end as brothers."

 _Brothers_. He had always called me "brother," no matter how many times I refused to do the same. And despite my misdeeds, he did not withhold the title now.

I was not prepared to say how deeply this affected me, nor how much his selflessness shamed me – not yet. Instead, I looked down at our clasped hands and shielded myself with bravado.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, now."

Nolofinwë was unruffled. He saw me clearly, I knew. He always had.


	6. Phoenix

My conversation with Nolofinwë had left me physically exhausted, and it seemed to have taken much of his energy as well, so we made our way back to the market district to find some food. Despite the hood over my face, I did not go unrecognized for long: I had known the vendor who served us since my childhood. He was a supplier for the palace kitchens, and whenever he made deliveries, he always came with tales to tell me. In his presence, I could almost imagine I was an ordinary boy, not a motherless prince. The intervening years had not changed him much, though there were lines of sorrow around his eyes now. He would not accept Nolofinwë's coin, only an assurance that we were both well. His genuine gladness at seeing that the Dark Lord's shadow had gone from me, as he put it, was a balm to my spirit.

Now we were back in the quiet park, reclining beneath one of the oaks with skewers of meat and vegetables in our hands. I had always loved street food of this sort: it was hearty, flavorful, and did not require the absurd amount of silverware that covered the dining tables at the palace. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine that I was not Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, but a simple craftsman resting from his labors.

Presently, Nolofinwë swallowed his current mouthful and looked at me thoughtfully. "Do you feel prepared to speak of your death? Some of the Reborn find it very difficult at first. I would not count myself among them."

It seemed a strange question, but I gave it my consideration. In truth, I felt almost nothing when I thought of my death save for a faint sense of dread. Perhaps I had been too full of battle-fury at the time for the unaccustomed violence to touch my spirit.

"I can't say I would either," I told Nolofinwë. "Why do you ask?"

His eyes gleamed with something that might almost have been mischief. "Because there is an ongoing debate, particularly among young Noldor raised on legends of the First Age, as to how many Valaraukar you fought."

I could not help but grin. I knew from the histories that it was very rare for an Elda to face more than one Valarauko at a time. This was something of a point of pride.

"I fear I must disappoint you all, for I cannot say for sure. They came very suddenly. Gothmog arrived last of all, when I was nearly spent, coward that he was."

"Have you a guess?"

"Hm…seven or so."

"Seven?" Nolofinwë shook his head, caught between wonderment and disapproval. "Those who swear it was upwards of fifteen won't be pleased to hear that."

"Whoever swears that is madder than I am!"

I tipped back into the grass and closed my eyes, letting the cool dew wash away the memory of Valaraukan fire. I had spent much of my life in a forge, and still that incredible heat had stolen my breath.

I heard Nolofinwë settle down beside me. "You know," he said, "if you have any intention of meeting Gothmog again, you ought to practice. There are Maiar here in Valinor, the Nárendili, who can change their shape to resemble the Valaraukar. They've been helping our soldiers train. The appearance is an illusion, but the power is not. Don't involve yourself so soon after your rebirth; you won't be strong enough, but you ought to watch the matches. Your followers have made an art of it. They don't believe the Valaraukar have all been destroyed, and nor should you."

I opened one eye. "I still have followers?"

"Oh, yes. They've been leading preparations for the Last Battle."

"Why on earth do I still have followers?"

Nolofinwë must have heard the note of bitter self-deprecation in my voice, for he clasped my arm. "You were occasionally known to do something good, Fëanáro," he said with a touch of exasperation. "They believe you still can."

I was not so certain, given the depth of my failures. Despite Nolofinwë's encouragement, I felt myself sinking into melancholy again.

"Do they? You know, Lord Námo told me when I was sentenced that I would never be reborn upon Arda. He plainly believed me irredeemable, yet…"

"Yet here you are."

"Why?"

Nolofinwë sat up, looking out across the lengthening shadows of the park. "Perhaps you proved him wrong," he said carefully. "The Valar do change their minds. They swore the Noldorin Exiles would never be pardoned, but many of them were permitted to return home by the end of the First Age."

I shook my head, ancient mistrust rising like a coiled snake. "They must want something from me. They've merely given me a chance to catch my breath before the war."

"Fëanáro…" Nolofinwë let out a long breath, but said nothing more. He refused to meet my gaze.

I sat up beside him and took his arm. "Do you know something?"

He sighed, still staring fixedly at the trees. Then, with an obvious struggle: "It's only a rumor, but…it's been said that the Silmarilli have a part to play in the ending of the world."

I could not think what this might be, and whatever it was, I had no power to recall the Silmarilli from their resting places in earth, sea, and sky. Surely that decision rested with the Valar, perhaps with the Allfather himself.

Nolofinwë seemed to realize he had said too much. He shook his head. "As I say, it's no more than a rumor, and a vague one at that. Come, Fëanáro, don't be morbid tonight. This is the night of your joy."

I felt far too lost and uncertain to rejoice, but I could only hope that would fade with time. I did not intend to waste this wondrous chance I had been given in brooding over every strange, unsettling thing I encountered.

When we had finished our skewers, I allowed Nolofinwë to lead me back toward the city center. There we came upon a secluded grotto whose stones were scarcely visible beneath a riot of escaped potted plants. They had climbed up the curved walls and meandered across the cobbles, burying white stone in a blanket of green leaves and pale purple flowers. Long ago, I had courted Nerdanel in a grotto just like this. Now the stone benches were ringed with families: young couples and their children arrayed for festival, laughing with delight at the little fireworks in their hands. Though they offered Nolofinwë deep bows, none of them seemed quite sure who I was. It struck me then that there were generations of Eldar born after the rebellion who had never seen me alive.

"You needn't tell them who I am," I murmured to Nolofinwë as we sat down on an unoccupied bench. "I have no wish for attention tonight."

"Quite understandable."

We had exhausted all our words, so we sat in contented silence and watched the children at their play. My heart, so accustomed to the taint of sorrow, lightened inexpressibly at the sound of their carefree laughter. One of the little ones was so small as to be unsteady on his feet of yet, and he went stumbling to his backside more than once, though this did not seem to bother him overmuch. Every time, he got back to his feet and went on his toddling way with a giggle and a grin. I wanted nothing more than to help him up and tell him he would be strong one day.

Eventually, one of the older children got up the courage to approach me with a bundle of hand-held fireworks. Her parents had (wisely) not given her any matches, and I suspected she thought I might be more charitable. I found myself wishing I could indulge her mischief, so bright and curious were her gray eyes.

Her mother, seated watchfully nearby, called out a gentle warning: "What have I told you about this sort of thing? Don't trouble strangers."

I lifted a hand in dismissal. "No trouble at all. Now, let's see how much I remember. Stand back a bit, _winimë_."

I took one of the fireworks from the girl, who obligingly drew back a pace, and let my fingers hover over the tip, imagining the bright energy of my spirit flowing into my hand. Then I closed my eyes and murmured a word of power.

There was a flash, and a flurry of glittering butterflies burst forth, trailing golden-white sparks behind them. The girl danced up and down trying to catch them as they spiraled up into smoke, laughing all the while.

"What did you say?" she demanded with the wide-eyed artlessness of youth.

I gave her a mysterious smile. "It's a secret. If I told you, the magic would fade."

She did not seem particularly pleased with this, but as is so often the way with children, her disappointment was soon forgotten. She skipped off back to her mother, shouting, "Ammë, Ammë, did you see?" The sudden tightening of my chest reminded me how terribly I missed my own sons.

Nolofinwë was eyeing me strangely, as if he had forgotten I could be playful and gentle. Perhaps I had forgotten that myself.

"You used to do that at palace gatherings."

"Yes, I learned a few small enchantments from Lord Aulë when he taught me to make fireworks."

"You always had an eager audience, but you gave fewer and fewer performances as you grew older."

"I came to see it as rather frivolous business, I'm afraid."

Nolofinwë rolled his eyes. "You always were too serious for your own good. Not everything you do need be as profound as the Tengwar and the Silmarilli, you know. Enjoyment is as necessary as wisdom or skill."

A wind came up, rustling the verdure in the grotto. Warm though it was, it carried a hidden chill that seemed to echo from the past. I felt disquiet begin to steal over me again, and I folded my arms across my chest to suppress a shiver.

"Have I any right to enjoy myself?"

"Of course you do, and I'll thank you to give yourself a chance before you cast any judgments."

This was a question I would have to answer for myself, I knew. There would undoubtedly be difficult moments in the days ahead, but my response was mine to decide. Despair was a close companion of mine, a familiar recourse. It would be no easy task to turn her away after walking for so long at her side.

We passed into silence again, watching the children light the last of their fireworks. The sunset dimmed around us, and soon enough the young ones drifted away, swinging from their parents' hands. Stung though I was by this display of innocence such as I had never truly known, it set me at ease to know that goodness still flourished in Arda Marred.

The grotto was not empty for long, however. The quiet was soon broken by a group of _nissi_ , talking and laughing gently with each other. All were dressed for festival, but they wore their hair plainly in a single braid over the left shoulder, bound at the end with a tiny Fëanárian star. It struck me that this must be some sort of uniform, for they all wore it, even…

Nerdanel.

She was dressed in green and gold to set off her eyes, her skin tanned nut-brown by the sun, a sprinkling of freckles only just visible across her cheeks. Like all her fellows, she wore a knife strapped to her bare upper arm in a leather sheath. Though her appearance was not much changed, there was something entirely new in her bearing. She wore her quiet strength openly now. It was visible in every line of her body and every step she took: the assurance of one who has ridden far across enemy lands and grown resilient.

I had always thought her beautiful, no matter how many times the Tirion elite called her plain, but never more so than I did just then. This was Nerdanel such as I had never seen her.

She noticed me just as I noticed her. I was on my feet before I was aware of it, drawn to her despite a deep, abiding fear that she would hate me. I knew from the _Treatise of Truth_ that she had found some sort of peace, but what could I say to her? There were no words that could change the past, no words that could make right what I had done.

Nerdanel's companions drew back respectfully, though it was evident they wanted to stay. Her face was changing too fast to read, passing through disbelief and anger and sorrow and hope and love. I was not certain she was breathing, though her lips were parted as though she wanted to speak.

We were inches from each other now, neither of us knowing how we had gotten there. She searched my face for one moment more, then dealt me a hard, backhanded blow.

"I don't know whether to kiss you or damn well kill you, Fëanáro!" she cried, eyes blazing, but in the next moment she had pulled me close and pressed her lips to mine.

It was as if all the long years of our separation had never been. She nestled perfectly against me just as she had in our youth, and I could feel her strength flowing into me, warming me, setting my heart speeding. Our souls were in communion, two disparate parts slotting perfectly together, bringing joy sharpened to such an exquisite point that my eyes stung. For a moment, we were not two but one, and we were all that existed.

When at last we broke apart, she put her arms around me and held me tightly as though she feared I would disappear. "I should kill you," she muttered into my shoulder.

Amidst a breathless rush of relief, joy, and shame, I found the voice to say, "Please don't do that, Istyë. Lord Námo would be very disappointed to find me back on his doorstep so soon."

She laughed a muffled laugh shot through with sorrow. When she looked up at me again, her green eyes were dry, but there was a bright, hot pain and a vulnerability that did not seem to suit her.

Seeing this, I felt my composure crumble. I sank to one knee and clasped her hands in mine, aware of nothing but my desperate fear of losing her.

It was rare for my voice to falter or break, but this time the tightness in my throat was too much. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I heard myself saying again and again, more breath than speech. It had been so difficult to say those words to Nolofinwë, but with Nerdanel they came as freely as tears or blood from an open wound. "I took them from you and I lost them, I lost them all…"

She knelt down and circled me with her arms, pressing my head to her shoulder. I could not see her face, but she was trembling, and when she spoke her voice was rough with bittersweet feelings too deep to name.

"They followed you," she told me.

I shook my head desperately. "I didn't try to stop them, did I?"

"Could you have stopped them? They loved you, Fëanáro – they still do – and we were all a bit mad in those days."

"That doesn't –"

"Hush. Hush, my love. Let me hold you. I've waited so long to hold you."

And so she did. She held me for a long while, so tightly that our heartbeats merged, held me until the shame drained out of me and left me quietly exhausted. Only when my breathing had settled did she draw back.

"I was so afraid you would never come back," she said, after swallowing hard to get control of her voice. She was tracing every line of my face with her clever sculptress's fingers, reassuring herself they were still the same as she remembered. "But then, I wasn't sure I _wanted_ you to come back, because I was afraid you would still be as you were at the end…or else I wouldn't recognize you at all."

"And do you?" My voice was little more than a breath. I dreaded her answer, for I hardly knew if I recognized myself.

Nerdanel held me at arm's length, looking at me critically. "You aren't as you were in your youth, but you aren't the mad king either, thank Eru. You know, I've been petitioning Lord Námo and Lady Nienna for ages, but they wouldn't let me see you…"

Now her voice did catch. She took one of my hands and rested her cheek against my palm.

Once again, I found I could hardly speak. "You…wanted to see me?"

She lifted her head, looking at me with the same stubbornness that had once enabled her to stand her ground in any argument and pull me from my darkest moods.

"Not at first, mind you," she said, eyes flashing. "If Lord Námo had released you too soon, I might have sent you back to him. I hated you, I missed you, then I hated you again, then I missed you again, and then I realized I wasn't nearly as angry with you as I was with Morgoth. He destroyed my family, Fëanáro, the moment he killed your poor father. So I went to war."

So the accounts I had read in Mandos – a flame-haired _nís_ with a sword of light – they were all true? Had Nerdanel still been as she was when I left her, frightened and despairing, it would have been difficult to imagine. The Nerdanel of the past, strong-willed though she was, hated and feared the swords I forged for my family. Now there was no apprehension or bitterness, only deep self-assurance and an air of well-earned authority. Something had clearly changed my wife. From the easy way she wore the knife on her arm, I could believe it was war.

"You've been in battle, Istyë?" Though there was pride in my voice, it frightened me to think of her risking her life.

She drew herself up a little. "I fought in both of the wars on Sauron, yes. I wasn't alone, of course; I led a company of elven women sick to death of watching their families die. We call ourselves the Vanguard. We train in all the usual areas, but we concern ourselves mostly with specialties: eagle-back combat, night fighting, dispatching Valaraukar, that sort of thing."

I shook my head at her brazenness, though I loved her for it. "You formed a military company and left Valinor, and the Valar allowed it?"

Nerdanel's eyes glinted with mischief. "We didn't exactly ask permission. The Straight Road runs both ways, whatever the Valar may say."

Ai, she had always matched me well, and she still did – perhaps better than ever. I tucked a loose strand of copper hair behind her ear. "You shall have to tell me all your war tales."

She drew me to my feet. "I shall, I promise you. I'll have to get you fighting fit before the Last Battle, too. You're ages out of practice."

I could only nod as she pulled me close and kissed the place where she had struck me, still stinging from her blow. Nerdanel's tone was light, but the thought of training with my battle-hardened wife sent faint anxiety shivering through me.

Behind us, Nolofinwë cleared his throat loudly, drawing both our gazes. We had entirely forgotten he was there.

"I'm so sorry, Nólo," said Nerdanel, quite unperturbed. "I'm afraid we've made you thoroughly uncomfortable."

"Oh, I'm easily overlooked," said Nolofinwë with an easy modesty I could never hope to achieve. He rose from the bench. "You have Fëanáro in good hands, Istarnië, so I'll say goodnight. Keep him out of trouble."

"You can be sure of that." She gave me a dangerous smile and drew a dagger from the sheath on her upper arm. Nolofinwë paused to watch her as she let the point hover at my throat. Though we all knew this was merely playful (at least, I hoped so), there was a perverse grin on his face as he walked away. _Now you know how it feels, brother_ , said his eyes.

I did not permit my gaze to flicker down to the blade. "Careful, my love," I told Nerdanel. "I've heard it means exile to draw steel on another Elda."

Nerdanel blinked several times, trying desperately to maintain her composure. Then a slow, irrepressible smile spread over her face, and then she threw her head back and laughed: a rich, beautiful sound like the ringing of bells.

When she had recovered, she leaned her head against mine. "There's the boy I married," she murmured tenderly. "I missed him."

The love in her voice set my heart soaring. For a moment, I felt as though I could do battle with all the Valaraukar in the world and not be harmed.

"Now, in payment for that ridiculous jest," Nerdanel went on, "I believe you owe me a dance!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nárendili – Lovers of Fire. I imagine these would be Maiar of Aulë.
> 
> winimë – little one (feminine)
> 
> The Book of Lost Tales, Part II indicates that in his later conceptions of Arda, Tolkien meant for there to be very few Balrogs in existence, perhaps no more than seven. Though I'm not necessarily going to limit myself to that number, you'll notice that's the same number Fëanor gives Fingolfin. I do like to think that Morgoth was so threatened by Fëanor that he threw ALL the Balrogs at him.
> 
> Fëanor totally had fireworks competitions with Gandalf in the old days.


	7. Shadow

Never had I danced as I did that night. For me, balls were associated with stiff robes, awkward small talk, and ill-disguised marriage negotiations, but the eve of the summer solstice was entirely different. There were no stately waltzes here, only intricate reels, proud and full of fire. I knew almost none of the steps, but Nerdanel did not seem to mind, and I was more than glad to let her be my guide. In her arms, I did not feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. We were one.

By the time the musicians paused, I was breathless, trembling with exertion, and grinning as I had not done since before my exile to Formenos. Nerdanel then led me away from the crowds so that we might speak more freely. She linked her hands at the back of my neck and rocked me gently to the low, sweet sounds of a hymn to Varda.

"How did you form this Vanguard of yours?" I asked her.

"Slowly and with the help of many people. 'Tis far too long a tale for tonight."

"How did it begin, then?"

"Not as grandly as you might imagine. It was when Anairë and Eärwen and I took a camping trip with some of our friends. As we sat by our fire one night, Anairë lamented that we had been powerless to protect our families from the enemy. I remember the idea came very suddenly to me then, as if I had woken from a long dream with a thought fully formed in my mind. 'Why must we remain powerless?' I asked my companions. And thus the Vanguard was born, though it was no easy task to bring it into being. You don't want to hear about politics tonight, do you?"

"What was your finest battle, then?"

A fierce, proud light came into her eyes. "If I had to choose, I would say I remember most the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, when we joined the armies of Rohan for a final charge to break the leaguer on Minas Tirith. You cannot imagine the power in six thousand galloping horses and six thousand warriors screaming with battle-fury. When your voice becomes part of that mighty roar, you feel that absolutely nothing can touch you."

A slumbering dragon stirred faintly within me. "I can imagine that all too well."

Her face fell slightly. "Then you know that invincibility is always an illusion."

Seeing that she was troubled, I took her face in my hand and gently upturned it to mine. "Istyë?"

She took my hand and drew me further from the center of the square. When she spoke, her voice was hard and flat, her face carefully neutral.

"I saw you die, Fëanáro. I sat in my bedchamber and watched as you took blow after blow. At the last, I saw Gothmog raise his blade to run you through. In my mind I threw myself between you, praying that I could stop him… For a time, I thought I might have hindered him just enough to save your life, but then pain tore me apart, and I knew your spirit had fled."

If she had indeed been with me in my last moments, I had not felt it. The madness of battle was on me, and in its wake a dawning, sick foreknowledge that I had led my people into a hopeless war. The thought of Nerdanel sitting alone in the dark trying desperately to defend me made me want to fall on my knees once again. Ai, she was so much better than I deserved!

I stopped where I stood, and she pressed her brow to mine.

"It was for the best that you failed, my brave love," I told her in a voice so soft and full of regret that I scarcely knew it for my own. "Did you not hate me then?"

Without lifting her eyes, she reached up to caress my face. "I was furious with you, to put it lightly, and sad and afraid. That did not make it easy to see you wrapped in fire and broken like a doll. My love is as steadfast as my anger, though less sensible."

"So you learned to fight."

"Eventually. For a long time I knew not whether I loved or hated you, but my feelings for the enemy were not so uncertain. There is no fury quite like that of a mother who has lost her sons and a wife who has lost her husband."

"You must have been formidable indeed."

Now Nerdanel smiled in such a way that I knew she was aware of exactly how dangerous she was. "So I've been told."

All this talk of my death had stirred memories of the chain of events that preceded it. A strange chill crept through me, and I drew Nerdanel closer, wanting her warmth and steadfastness. "Do you ever wonder," I asked her uneasily, "how different things might have been had I agreed to break the Silmarilli?"

For a moment Nerdanel looked as if she wanted to scold me for this extraordinarily belated realization, but then her face softened. "As it happened, Morgoth had them."

"Of course, but I…I could have shown composure, maturity, selflessness – I could have shown myself a king – and then I could have devised a new light source for Valinor…" I released a heavy breath, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. "I could have saved them all."

Nerdanel took my face between her clever, callused hands. "You know, Olórin used to say that all we have to decide is what to do with the time we are given. You still have time, Fëanáro. You may yet have your chance to do something great."

"I have had so many chances, Istyë, and I've spoiled them all at the critical moment."

This shame had been my close companion in Mandos, yet still I did not know how to manage it. My instinct was to draw upon my pride, as I always had, but that was nigh impossible now that I saw so clearly how many times I had been given an opportunity to change my heart, and how many times I had turned away. This left me feeling thoroughly lost.

Nerdanel, as always, was more certain of herself. "Then learn from those moments," she told me, "and do better next time. I have it on good authority that during the War of the Ring, Olórin expressed a wish to go back to the Years of the Trees and watch you at your work. So many people want to see you at your best, my love."

Her faith could not entirely banish the chill from my heart, and soon I understood why. Without realizing it, the sun had fallen, and we had come to the base of the dais where I gave my final address to the Noldor and swore my binding vow. Inlaid at the top, I knew, was a mosaic of my father's heraldic star. Without ever climbing the gleaming marble steps, I could envision each tiny chip of color in that crest. There were other images as well, these unbidden: torches bobbing like fireflies on a dark sea, shining blood-red on drawn swords, casting pale faces in uncertain half-light. If I listened, I could perceive an echo of my own voice: _a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless sea_ …

Was that my fate: to haunt the mists of the past until I grew dazed by my own despair and fell back into depravity?

In that moment, it was as if the ghost of the Oath, still circling the dais like a vulture, had endowed all my dark thoughts with a will of their own. They had no form, but they had a voice, as cold and bleak as the Void. Although I knew it spoke from within me, rising from the wellspring of my doubts and fears, it was difficult to imagine that I had any power to silence it.

_Yes_ , this voice hissed, _you will be tested again, and you will fail again, for you are marred._

I was dimly aware that I was trembling. Cold was creeping up through my fingertips towards my chest.

_The Marred is much like the Marrer, is it not so? You and the Black Foe, both ambitious, clever, but selfish and merciless, hoarding away the light, taking what you desire without any thought to the cost_ …

Sick with horror, I tried desperately not to contemplate the core of truth in this.

_What I did_ , I told my shadow, _I did for my father as much as for the Silmarilli…_

_Did you? Such a tribute. Strange, too, that you should love Finwë so dearly yet make no mention of him in your Oath._

_I could not speak of him, not even to myself!_

This was perhaps a feeble excuse, though the sentiment was sincere. After the Darkening, I never spoke of my father again: not because I did not love him, but because I loved him too much. To speak his name, even for vengeance's sake, would have been to put the final seal on his death and render my nightmares a reality. Indeed, between the Darkening and my last address in Tirion, I hardly spoke at all. It was as if my voice had died with my father, as did so much of the good in me. I could not even lead Atar's funeral.

The shadow on my mind knew all this, of course.

_Your father's death was a fine enough justification,_ it intoned, _but the lost Silmarilli soon supplanted him in your heart._

_No –_

_Coward_. _You may throw yourself at all the Valaraukar you like, but you are a coward._

I could only just feel myself shuddering against Nerdanel's arms, which were folded protectively across my chest from behind. Very likely, she was the only thing keeping me upright.

"What is it, Finwion?" she was asking, one hand already drifting towards the knife on her upper arm.

Her warmth gave me just enough strength to speak, though my voice was faint and faltering. "This place brings me such…such terrible thoughts…" I managed through short, sharp breaths.

Nerdanel seemed to understand at once. She had always been discerning; perhaps she could hear the words in my mind.

She set herself between me and the dais and took my hands firmly in her own. "Then banish them, Fëanáro," she said, and I heard in her voice an echo of what she must have sounded like as she led her armies. There was authority, surety, boundless courage. "Your mind is a haven, and you have every right to dismiss unwanted guests."

How could I? I had sworn to make the very best of my new life, but my ancient darkness was so deeply rooted that I was by no means convinced it would not creep back in at the last moment and destroy me. How could I ever break such triple-locked chains?

_You are your own thrall_ , my shadow jeered.

Strangely, this was the key I needed. If Moringotto had set me upon the road to the Void by playing on my own weaknesses, it was not he who kept me there, then or now. It was I who now invoked the specter of the oath-maker, when I ought to leave him behind forever.

If I could shut my doors on a Vala, surely I could shut them on myself.

I drew the heat of my tattered pride around me and pushed back against my own thoughts with an almost physical effort. Nerdanel sensed my blooming resistance and joined hands with me. Yes, yes, this was right: my first and perhaps my greatest mistake was to isolate myself from those who loved me.

Thus strengthened, I returned my attention to my shadow.

_I gave you life_ , I told the voice of my arrogance and greed, my selfishness and treachery, my cruelty and folly, _and so I may give you death. You shall have no share in this second chance of mine. In Eru's name, get you gone to the Void!_

In that moment, all my darkest thoughts, all my dread and self-loathing, arose and coiled around my heart like a great serpent: _Destroyer of your mother, puppet of Moringotto, kin-traitor, kinslayer, faithless coward, you raze everything you touch –_

_It need not always be so! Back to the Void with you!_

Nerdanel tightened her grip on my hands as I thought these words, and her love gave me hope that even for me, grace was possible. There was a last twisting of my gut, one more full-bodied shudder, and then I felt the shadow depart from me.

It had not quite gone, I knew. It lingered over the dais like a miasma, given strength by the weight of tragedy in this place of no return. It would not take me tonight, but I would need to strengthen my convictions before I could banish it entirely. My own mind would continue to be my greatest foe.

I sank shakily to my knees, breathing as though I had just run a race.

Nerdanel knelt beside me and laid my head on her shoulder. She stroked my hair in silence while I caught my breath.

"No one returns from Mandos perfectly healed," she murmured. "I've seen every one of our sons do battle with the past just as you are now. Just remember, Fëanáro, that although it's harder to light a candle than to curse the darkness, it's so much more worthwhile."

Which of those had I done after the Darkening, I wondered? Were both possible at once? Speculation would change nothing, of course; the question I now faced was how to use my rebirth to light as many candles as possible. Surely the best place to start was with Nerdanel and our sons. They had lost so much to my war, and although I could not give them back their innocence, I could do my utmost to bring them joy in the days that lay ahead.

I thought again of the visions I had seen during my judgment: my sons, reborn and happy in their new lives, pursuing their interests and having adventures. Despite all that had just happened before the dais, the thought sent warmth stealing gently through me.

"Are they well, Istyë? Our children?" I asked Nerdanel.

She laughed softly in her throat. "Yes, all well, and keeping the Noldorin court on its toes." I was almost afraid to ask what this might mean. "They'll be so glad to see you."

"Will they?"

"You stop that, Finwion!" She gave me a shake. "If you think I mean to let you brood from now until the End, you are very much mistaken. Your later deeds are not your only deeds, nor will they be your deeds to come."

I drew a breath, squared my shoulders. "Light candles."

"Exactly."

With the music and revelry at our backs, it was just quiet enough that at that moment we made out a low rumbling, like distant thunder. At first I thought it must be enemy drums, for somewhere in my mind I still felt that the Dagor-nuin-Giliath had ended yesterday. Nerdanel's smile, however, only broadened.

"It must be Formenos," she told me. "They hoard fireworks like a dragon hoards gold. Perhaps they've sensed your return. Formenos remains, to this day, the home of your most ardent loyalists."

Once again, I was struck dumb by the notion that I still had followers. Surely even those who loved me well had found their admiration much reduced by my misdeeds.

As if she sensed my thoughts, Nerdanel went on, "They've been hammering on the gates of Mandos for ages, demanding their king be given the chance Morgoth took from him. You should see them, when you feel strong enough for a journey. It would do you good."

"Do they acknowledge that I had as much a part in my fall as Moringotto?"

"They do, grudgingly. They still believe you were cheated."

Of course they did. Few ever changed the courses of the Fëanárians by force, by counsel, or, it seemed, by ignominious defeat.

"Then I must tell them to give me no fealty until I prove myself a worthy leader," I said, though I could not help but smile as I listened to the distant explosions.

"They won't hear you. You know they won't," said Nerdanel. "When Fëanárians give their hearts, they do so forever."

I suspected she was referring at least partly to herself. I drew her close again, still marveling at how wonderful it felt to hold her.

"But you were not born a Fëanárian, my love."

"No, I am a Fëanárian by choice, and so my bond is even stronger." She tilted her head to kiss me tenderly.

As she did so, there came a sudden swell of music behind us. Then just as suddenly, it ceased. Silence fell, and every light in the city was extinguished all at once.

I knew a moment of absolute, breathless terror in which I was hurled back to the night of the Darkening. I was scarcely aware that I was clutching Nerdanel's arm so tightly that I could feel the pulse beneath her skin.

Then, through the silence, many bells began to ring.

They had hardly pealed once before the lights blazed up with renewed vigor, and every voice in the city lifted in a glorious hymn to Eru and to life. The music was about me and within me, vibrating in the air and in the ground and in my chest and in the deep reaches of my spirit. Above, the stars had become jewels to adorn the mantle of night.

"Midnight," said Nerdanel in a low, vibrant voice. "Summer begins. How fitting that our brightest star should return to us on the day of longest light."

It crossed my mind then that Lord Námo might have planned it so.

The next moment, Nerdanel drew me to my feet and pulled me up the steps of the dais. There she held me very close and laid her head on my shoulder, and we swayed together on the sweet tide of the music. She was more beautiful than ever then, with firelight and starlight mingling in her hair.

Firelight and starlight…just like the night of my Oath. But no, on that night the stars were cold and remote, the firelight uncertain and ominous. Tonight, Tirion had become Cuiviénen as my father must have known it. In the darkness, the surface of the dais was as smooth and gleaming as those primordial waters, and the reflected torchlight seemed to shine up from beneath the stone. This was raw, ancient, _right_.

And here we were, Nerdanel and I, dancing together in utter bliss in defiance of the tragedy that had been wrought here: breaking chains, lighting candles.

I had always been prone to looking ahead and looking back, never living in the present, and no doubt I had missed many precious things because of it. Not every moment could be as perfect as this one; I had seen already tonight that my deepest hurts might not come from other Eldar, but from within myself. But just now, I was determined not to think of that. This was, as Nolofinwë had said, the night of my joy.

I hoped the Allfather could feel it, there in the Timeless Halls.

I held Nerdanel close enough to feel her heartbeat mingling with mine. Around me, the world dissolved into firelight and starlight and the verdant green of Nerdanel's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf wanting to use a palantír to watch Fëanor at work is one of my favorite moments of LotR.
> 
> "It's hard to light a candle, easy to curse the dark instead," – from "Last Ride of the Day" by Nightwish
> 
> It's up to you whether you think Fëanor's "shadow" is his own guilty conscience or a part of his soul that he left in the Void. In my own imagination, the line is very blurry.


	8. Treasures

I might have danced all night had I not been so recently released from Mandos. Lord Námo had not exaggerated: my new _hröa_ was entirely unaccustomed to the exertions of everyday life. What little physical strain I encountered in his gardens had been dulled by the enchantments of that eternally suspended place. The feast of the summer solstice had hardly begun to wane before I was forced to heed the weight of exhaustion in my body.

Nerdanel, having seen the same symptoms in all of her reborn sons, understood at once. She led me back through the crowds in the great square with practiced surety, stopping only to take two chilled drinks from a server's tray so we might refresh ourselves. I hardly noticed where we were going. It was perfectly wonderful to let her guide me.

Before I knew it, we were outside the city walls, the sky and the slopes of Túna unfurling like darkened seas. The evening's warmth had diminished pleasantly by now. It was rather a relief to feel the breeze on my face, cooling my heated skin. The chorus of crickets around us, too, was soothing after the lively music in the city.

"Take care, now," Nerdanel warned as we began our descent down the hill. "I'd give anything for a lantern."

She laced her arm through mine, for she knew as well as I did that I was tired enough to stumble. Even my thoughts were submerged in a haze of contentment.

"Why was everyone in the city saying 'goodnight,' Istyë?" I asked idly. "What could possibly be good about night?"

She considered this for a moment. "Was there no cycle of day and night in Lord Námo's gardens?"

"There was, but it went almost entirely unheeded."

"I suppose we didn't say goodnight in the Years of the Trees, did we? There was no true night, only the silver hours." She stopped me then, and though I could not see her face, I knew she was looking at me critically. "I understand why you would hate the darkness, Fëanáro, but night is as beautiful and blessed as day. Night is peace and sleep, a time to rest and make yourself strong. Night is stars. The Treelight was always too bright to see them."

A thought struck me quite suddenly then: "Which one is my jewel?"

"Eärendil's star?" It might have been a trick of the darkness, but I thought I saw her stiffen. "This one."

I followed the line of her upraised arm to a distant sphere of pale white-gold, not far from the curve of the moon. It was by far the brightest object in the sky tonight, and it shone steadily amidst the twinkling stars. All the blood shed in the name of the Silmarilli had quite soured my obsession, but in that moment I felt a flare of my old arrogance. One of my jewels now outshone the stars of Varda, a guiding light for all the children of Eru.

"In Endórë they call it Gil-Estel, Star of Hope," Nerdanel went on hesitantly. "Does that please you?"

This required some consideration. I did not long for the Silmarilli as I once had, though it unsettled me to know that three pieces of my essence lay far beyond my reach. I had not been indulging in dramatics when I told the Valar that I would be slain if I broke my gems. Still, it was some consolation to know that all the world could now see the beauty I had wrought.

"If it brings courage to our allies and dread to our enemies, then I suppose I can't protest too much," I told Nerdanel.

She let out her breath in a rush of relief. "My, you've changed! I was afraid you might ask me to help you shoot down Wingelótë and reclaim your jewel."

"No, I'm far too tired for that tonight."

She gave me a shove which, in my exhausted state, nearly knocked me off my feet.

Our house was built in the fields that sprawled about the base of Túna. Neither Nerdanel nor I had any love for court life, and when we married I was more than glad to get away from the palace, my stepmother, and backbiting Tirion politics. It was a small house for nine people, but well-furnished and thoroughly comfortable. Its walls held many of my happiest memories. I almost dreaded the sight of it, for I feared it would be unrecognizable as the place where I rocked my infant sons and watched them grow and fell ever deeper in love with my wife.

My fears were unfounded, as it happened. When we came upon the house, I was relieved to find that in defiance of all the years that had passed, it was every bit as I remembered. I paused at the whitewashed gate to let the feeling of home spread through me like a hot drink after a long journey. The windows were dark and the timbers shrouded in shadow, but silver lights like the ones in Tirion were hung from the roof eaves and set all along the porch rail. By their glow I could just make out the small fountain in the yard, one of my first (and only) works with stone.

I allowed myself to imagine that Nerdanel and I were newly married, returning from a dance in the city with nothing on our minds but to fall asleep in each other's arms.

Then Nerdanel pushed the gate open and said, "I see the boys left the lights on for us," and the spell was broken. Suddenly I found myself unable to step onto the dirt path.

As always, Nerdanel understood. She took my hands, saying softly, "You have nothing to fear from our sons. If you could face Nolofinwë, you can easily face them."

Eru protect me! I did not think I could endure another conversation such as that one in the park.

"I could stay out here tonight," I offered hesitantly. "I don't mind. It's still warm, and I feel I could face it all with one more night of sleep…"

Nerdanel, however, was adamant. "You are not going to sleep in the yard of your own house, Fëanáro. I told you, I'm bound and determined not to let you brood. You'll feel so much better once you do this."

With that, she led me up the porch steps and through the door.

In Mandos I had longed for this house many times, at least in the abstract, but now details I had not thought of in ages returned to me in a rush. There was the cloak-tree beside the door, carven as a gnarled trunk. There was the staircase leading to the bedrooms – did the fourth stair still squeak and bow in the middle? There were the wooden floors, worn smooth with the passing of many feet. And there were Nerdanel's statues standing guard in the dining room.

These were different than I remembered: images of the Valar exchanged for screaming eagles, rearing horses, and Eldar both male and female armed for battle. This was the only indication that time had not passed by the house entirely. The militarism I had felt in Tirion, the sense of readiness, had plainly crept into Nerdanel's artistry as well. It was a striking reminder that the Valinor into which I had been reborn was a Valinor that remembered the Darkening and fully expected it to happen again.

This aside, all was peace. Our sons had left a trail of blue lampstones to guide us, but when Nerdanel led me into the kitchen, it was not a lampstone we found on the scrubbed wooden table, but an ancient soot-blackened lamp. I recognized it at once as an early metalworking project of mine. I had cut whorls and stars from the dark metal so that the firelight could pass through. Now, it cast a kaleidoscope of flickering patterns over the table.

"Why have you kept this, Istyë?" I asked Nerdanel as she went about uncovering a tray of something sweet-smelling. "I could do so much better now."

"I much prefer firelight to the blue of your lampstones. Ambarto decided this morning that from now on, this lantern should burn every year on the eve of solstice. Perhaps he sensed your return; he was always intuitive. Now, close your eyes."

I did so. I heard her step softly over the stone floor and place something in my mouth: a peach pastry, fragrant with cinnamon and still lingeringly warm from the oven. It was a taste of summer, and I had never eaten better.

"Your cooking is as fine as ever, Istyë," I told her when I had swallowed and licked the remnants of filling from my lips.

In the dim red glow of the lantern, Nerdanel smiled warmly at me. "I made them as a treat for solstice, but I never imagined you would be home to eat them too. I confess I didn't share Ambarto's faith in your return."

"We may all need such faith in the days to come. I met a girl tonight who offered me fireworks to light, and a toddling boy who got up every time he stumbled and fell. We ought to take the innocence of children as our example."

Amidst these words, I realized that Nerdanel was not looking at me but past me, back towards the entryway and the stairs.

"Speaking of children, we seem to have woken two of them."

My heart suddenly racing, I followed her gaze to the kitchen doorway, where I beheld two young men in white nightclothes: coppery hair tousled, still rubbing sleep from their eyes.

I tried to speak, but my voice died in my throat.

"…Atto?" said Ambarto, as if he thought me a figment of his dreams.

I had to close my eyes to keep from seeing them as I had seen them in the Void: lying dead in the streets of Sirion with their hands still clasped.

"Hello, my darlings," I said at last, my voice low and hoarse with emotions I could not name. "I've missed you so much."

There was a sickening pause. I was utterly certain the twins were poised to flee, having determined I was still the mad kinslayer of the past. Then all at once, in a rush of white and copper, their arms were around me. They were fully grown now, and I lost my balance and sank to the cool stone floor, but I hardly noticed. All three of us were trembling.

"I love you," I whispered into their hair, over and over. These were the only coherent words I could manage, and perhaps the only words I needed. Eru knew these were the words I should have said upon my death, not "Avenge me," and "Hold to your oath."

After a long moment of holding each other painfully tight, I drew back. "Let me see your faces, my youngest ones." They looked in the prime of health, gray eyes gleaming, freckled faces flushed and lively. It made my heart soar. "Have you been happy? Keeping busy?"

"Life is never dull for a prince of the Noldor," Ambarussa said with a knowing glance at his twin. "Lord Turindo tried to pass a ridiculous new tax recently…"

"…so Aunt Írimë set off firecrackers under the council table when it came time for the vote," Ambarto went on. He had always been more solemn than his younger twin, but now he was grinning impishly.

"We may or may not have helped her steal the ballots while everyone was distracted."

"Turko may have helped, too."

"And Moryo."

"And Curvo."

"The vote had to be postponed."

"So unfortunate."

"Lord Turindo ought to take the chance to reconsider his proposal…"

"…but he won't."

This exchange struck me as strangely frivolous at first, but then, how _did_ one go about reintroducing oneself to a long-dead father? We had to start bridging the gap somewhere. This was as good a place as any.

Despite my nerves, I took one look at Nerdanel, her face caught somewhere between censure and approval, and felt affectionate laughter bubble from my lips. Though their natures differed, my youngest sons had always been well attuned to one another. Long ages had not changed this. If anything, their soul-bond had only deepened. It delighted me to hear them finish each other's sentences as if they shared one mind. It hardly mattered what they said. The mere sound of their voices made my heart race with joy.

"Your mother will scold me for saying this," I told them in a low, playful voice, "but I'm glad to hear you're giving Turindo trouble. So he is Minister of Finance now, is he? Is he as cheerless as ever?"

Ambarto smirked wryly. "Well, he hasn't found any love for you since you've been gone, I'll say that. But let's not talk about him toni –"

He broke off, glancing towards the front hall. We had not troubled to keep quiet, and our laughter had woken the rest of my sons. They were gathered in the kitchen doorway now, some still sullen with sleep, some wide-eyed as realization dawned. I said nothing. My throat was tight with regret and the fear of rejection I had felt too many times tonight. What could I say? How could I recompense them for their ages of suffering and devotion?

It was then that I realized – not for the first time, but more clearly than ever – how beautiful and precious they were. Curufinwë, barely awake but already taut with the desire to do and make; Carnistir with his eyes that missed nothing; Tyelkormo, hands on his hips in a show of bravado that did not quite conceal his trembling… And Maitimo, still too dignified and serious for his own good, a shadow of ancient sorrow lingering around his eyes. Macalaurë leaned lightly against him, radiating a calm as deep as the sea. I knew not what had brought him home at last, but I blessed it wholeheartedly.

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, my voice failed me. I could only hold out my hands and pray they would come to me.

Perhaps that was enough. For all that I loved them, I had allowed my work to take me away from them too often. Ages later, I could give them nothing but my love and pride, but those things I could give with both hands.

They came, hesitantly at first, then more eagerly, until we were sitting in a cluster on the kitchen floor, and they were all talking at once and I was trying to kiss them all and say all the things I had wanted to say during my long sojourn in death. I wasn't certain any of it was coherent, but perhaps it didn't need to be. We were home, we were together, and I was holding my sons again. To feel their warmth and their weight against me was a sacred gift I would never again take for granted.

When the breathless phrases at last ceased to fall from our lips, I drew back a bit so I could see all seven of their faces. I did not try to conceal the wetness in my eyes: surely I owed them my tears at the very least. As with Nerdanel, the words of humility came freely to my tongue.

"I should have released you," I rasped. "I should have blessed you for what you had done and set you free. I…I beg you to forgive me, my dearest ones. I'm so desperately sorry."

Curufinwë had been shaking his head all through this confession, and now he laid a slender, callused finger on my lips. "We wanted to fight for you."

"Not by the end," Carnistir muttered darkly, though there was more of sorrow in his voice than unkindness.

"No, but even then, we hoped that fulfilling the quest would bring us all peace, including you, Atar," Maitimo emended. He took my hands in his – both of his! – and ran his thumbs soothingly over my knuckles. "When Haru Finwë died, you…became something we couldn't recognize. If we hated anything, we hated the Oath and what it made you. The father we fought for was the father we remembered from the Noontide. The father we loved."

This was wrong, just as with Nerdanel. They should hate me. I could not restrain myself. "Ai, Nelyo, you threw yourself into a burning chasm!"

He only held my hands tighter. The tentative hope in his face was painful to look upon. "I too became something I couldn't recognize. I thought the fire might…well, the thing is done. We needn't speak of it."

I very much thought we should, but Macalaurë prudently spoke up.

"I'm not sure you could have released us from the Oath," he said. His was the same low, pleasant voice I remembered, but there was a core of steel in it now I had never heard before. "None of us had any power over it once we had sworn. Only the Allfather could have set us free."

"And we chose to swear," Carnistir pronounced solemnly. "If we regretted it in the end, that was our affair."

"You chose, but I didn't stop you!" I protested, my voice fraying with emotion. "Pityo, Telvo, you especially – you were still so young! Had I any sense, I would have tried to –"

"You're bold to assume we could have been stopped." Tyelkormo's words came with an almost feral grin that told me Mandos had not entirely cowed his reckless spirit. "Morgoth killed our grandfather, stole your proudest achievement, left Valinor in darkness, and the Valar did…what?"

Nods and murmurs of assent all around.

"Someone had to fight," Curufinwë agreed.

"Not, of course, in the way we chose to fight." Macalaurë's addition brought down the shadow of Alqualondë, and I felt my soul shudder from it. "But I believe we would always have left Valinor, no matter how it happened. It wasn't – and isn't – in our nature to sit idle and trust that all will be well."

"Some of them stayed. Uncle Aro did," Ambarto pointed out, and received an elbow in the side from his twin.

"The Fëanárians are not as gentle as their peers," said Curufinwë with no small amount of pride. He did not mention Nolofinwë's folk, I noticed.

"The point," Maitimo cut in, "is that we've made our peace with the past, Atar. Please don't be sad on such a night as this."

I brushed at my damp cheeks and composed myself with a great effort. "Let me tell you one more thing, then. Give me your hands, all of you."

They did so – strong, callused hands, some faintly scarred, some stained with fading spots of ink. Nerdanel set her clever fingers atop them all. Even Huan came trotting into the room then, a wiry gray shape in the dimness, and laid his head on the lattice of our hands.

"I've always loved you, my dearest ones," I said to the hopeful faces and fervent eyes around me. "I pray you know that much. I lost sight of that love in the last years of my life, when my grief and wrath hid it from me, but it never faded. You are my treasures, more than any work of my hands. I can't take your suffering from you, but I promise that from this day forward I shall do all in my power to bring you joy. Take this as my oath to you."

Tension thrummed through our clasped hands at this. I had expected as much – oaths must necessarily have significant negative connotations amongst the Fëanárians – but I did not retract my words. As always, I had chosen them with good reason. This new vow of mine was the counter to the old, joy against sorrow, redemption against doom.

In the silence that followed, Maitimo drew a shaky breath. "Atar, you needn't swear us any oaths. We can hear in your voice and see in your face that you speak truly."

Despite the gravity of the situation, I smiled. "Well, you know how I love words, Nelyo."

"Yes, I know how you love the sound of your own voice, but you need to sleep," said Nerdanel, extracting her hands. "You'll talk all night if I let you."

There was a collective noise of protest from our seven sons.

"Your father is tired," Nerdanel went on sternly. "You remember how it was when you first left Mandos."

"Then let them stay with me, at least," I offered. "We've been so long apart, I couldn't stand another few hours."

"Well…" Her face softened, and I could tell she was no more eager than I was to have her family separated tonight, even by bedroom doors. "…all right. You fetch your pillows and blankets. We'll sleep side by side."

Soon we had made a comfortable nest of blankets on our living room floor. Try as we might to stay awake and whisper to each other, none of us managed it for long. One by one, my wife and sons dropped into slumber, the moonlight silvering their peaceful faces. I could only wish that peace would never leave them.

Just as my consciousness began to slip, I felt Maitimo's hand on my shoulder.

"Don't you dare, Atar."

"Don't I dare what, Nelyo?"

"Don't you torment yourself. If I know you at all, I'd say you've done more than enough of that. All we want is our father back: the one we knew before the Darkening, before Morgoth."

"I shall do all I can, _yonya_."

A soft sigh. "I know you will. You never do anything less."

I suspected he was referring to my death, but I was far too tired to think of that now. I was home, I was with my family, and for the moment, all was well. No doubt it would not last. Not everyone would welcome me back with open arms.

My last thoughts as I fell into slumber were of the lantern on the kitchen table. I was like that lantern, I realized. My soul was soot-blackened and damaged by time, irrevocably in places. My flame had nearly been extinguished, but hope was not yet lost. The fire that burns despite wind, rain, and darkness, small though it may be, is all the more beautiful for its struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haru – Grandfather
> 
> Yonya – my son
> 
> If you didn't catch it, I follow the published Silmarillion with regard to the twins' deaths (they both died in the Third Kinslaying). In my story, you can assume that Nerdanel has always used Ambarto as Amrod's mother-name, not Umbarto, as neither of the twins were "fated" to die at Losgar.


	9. Rekindling

My veins were filled with fire.

A Valaraukan blade was lodged in my stomach, searing my insides. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this sort of pain, and not even my formidable pride and the shield of battle-fury could keep me from screaming. But I had no breath. It had all been driven from me by the heat and the smoke and the sword-blow.

Gothmog loomed over me, his furnace mouth gaping open.

_Any last words, foolish Noldo?_

I had miscalculated. Severely. I could not summon a shred of defiance.

Gothmog began to withdraw the blade, and I did scream then, full-throated and agonized. _Eru, let it end!_ I prayed. _Death would be a release!_

"Fëanáro! Fëanáro, you must wake!"

Was that…Nerdanel's voice? No, it couldn't be. She was far away in Valinor, lost to me.

Through a red haze of agony, I felt hands on my shoulders. My sons, come to my aid? No, it was far too late for that; there was no cure for impalement on a flaming sword.

The hands shook me. "It's no more than a nightmare, my love!"

Nightmare? Then…

I forced my eyes open.

Valaraukan fire became sunlight, streaming into our living room through the high eastern windows. Blinking the haze from my eyes, I beheld first my wife, copper hair loose and tousled, and then our seven sons around her. All were looking down at me with no small amount of concern.

I realized belatedly that I was thinly coated in sweat and my back was arched as if Gothmog truly had run me through. Embarrassed, I allowed myself to sink back into my tangled nest of blankets.

"Was it the Valaraukar?" Macalaurë asked, putting a cool, soothing hand on my arm.

"I'm afraid so." My voice caught, hoarse with sleep and screaming. "Forgive me for waking you."

"Never mind that, it's nearly midday as it is," said Nerdanel, with a comforting sense of practicality. "Are you all right?"

"Of course, it was only a dream…albeit a very vivid one. Strange. I've never been at all frightened by the memories of my death."

"You may not be afraid of them, exactly," Maitimo offered. He had so much of his mother's prudence, that same ability to bring me back from the brink of explosion. "This nightmare may be your mind's way of warning you not to go looking for trouble. Self-preservation."

I pushed myself upright with a rueful smile. "Eru knows I could do with some of that, though I have no intention of screaming myself awake every morning from now until the end."

"You should go to the Nárendili arena, when you feel ready." That was Tyelkormo, seated with his back to the window, his pale golden hair turned brilliant white by the sun. "You won't be fit enough to compete yet, but if you watch the matches, you'll learn how the Valaraukar are fought. Well, they're not really, Valaraukar, of course."

"They're shape-changing Maiar, yes. Nolofinwë told me." My gaze fell on my rumpled clothes, and I made a half-hearted attempt to smooth them. I had not bothered to change out of the ceremonial blue-and-silver robes I'd worn the night before. "That's always been your solution, hasn't it, Turko? When in doubt, fight. You haven't changed a bit."

"Wait, what's…?" Nerdanel put a hand on my arm. In the course of my agonized writhing, my sleeve had fallen back. Following her gaze, I noticed for the first time the faint silvery scars that wrapped my right arm.

That was where a Valaraukan whip had cracked right through my armor, binding my arm to wrest my sword from me. But how was this possible? My _hröa_ had fallen to ashes in the moment of my death; how could I have scars?

Nerdanel traced the curving lines with her fingertip, indiscernible emotions shifting across her face. "Is this from your last battle?"

"I'm almost certain. How can that be, though? This is not my former _hröa_ , as far as I can claim to understand the process."

"If the Allfather can create a new body for you, He can mark it with a gentle reminder of what happens to prideful fools." Nerdanel met my gaze with a warning in her eyes, albeit tinged with sorrow. "Be sure you heed it."

Solemn silence met this pronouncement. I could only bow my head.

Curufinwë came quietly to my defense. "We all know what can happen when battle-fury takes you. It's like strong drink."

"None of you ran headlong into a horde of fire demons you had only ever read of in legends," I said ruefully, though I squeezed his hand in gratitude for his aid.

"Believe it or not, I've been tempted more than once to get drunk on war myself," Nerdanel went on. "I understand the appeal. It's why I'm so hard on my soldiers. Do you know, Fëanáro, that there was a time I thought I might go to Lórien and sleep forever? I had lost everything I loved; I saw no reason to fight. When I found my purpose again in making war on the enemy, I embraced it every bit as much as you did when your father was killed. It was so, so good to feel something other than sorrow. Hate was warmth, hate was strength. If I had had my way, I would have gone to Endórë and marched to Mordor alone."

"What stopped you, Istyë?" I asked softly. She had always been as strong-willed as I, but she tempered her passion with wisdom. I would do well to learn from her.

A strange expression crossed Nerdanel's face.

"Your mother. I'm sure you know she has been reembodied, though she remains in Lady Vairë's service. I visited her often in the days before I founded the Vanguard. We had lost so many of the same loved ones, and it comforted me to speak my grief and fear to one who would not judge. She did not encourage me to wallow in my sorrow, but nor did she urge recklessness. When I found my new purpose, she advised patience and hope – hope that the Vanguard would come to fruition and bring honor to the Noldor. Míriel has learned patience very well, Fëanáro. You ought to go and see her when you feel ready. She could counsel you well."

I had had every opportunity to speak with my mother during my time in Mandos, and I had shied away. The rumors that had shadowed me all my life – that my birth was a product of Arda Marred, that I had stolen my mother's spirit for my own selfish ends – had never left my mind, no matter how many times my father assured me these were vicious falsehoods. Now I had a legacy of ruin to follow my name as well. None of this made me eager to seek out my mother, though a small, childlike part of me longed to feel her arms around me.

My discomfort must have showed in my face. "When you feel ready," Nerdanel repeated gently, squeezing my arm. "Now, I think it's long past time we were up and about. It wouldn't do to sleep away this most special solstice day."

As it happened, a messenger had come from the palace sometime that morning and slipped a note through the slot in the front door. It seemed my father intended to visit us that evening if that was all well and good with us. I could not have been more delighted, although Nerdanel immediately became agitated when she realized she had no food prepared.

So we made a day of it. Preparing the meal was, in fact, the perfect thing to bring us all back together. It was so wonderfully _ordinary_ to stand there in the kitchen with my family, chopping up greens and toasting slivered almonds for salad, kneading bread dough, slicing cubes of cheese, shredding cold chicken and washing strawberries and grapes. We got in each other's way and snapped good-naturedly just as if nothing at all had changed. For a time, I forgot my fear that this was all a beautiful dream from which I might wake at any moment to find myself back in the Void. The smells of baking bread and fresh fruit, the heat of the oven, my family's rosy faces, the sound of their laughter – all were reassuringly vivid and real.

As we worked, my wife and sons told me all their news. Trying to recount the more distant past would have taken an age, so we limited ourselves to recent events. Maitimo proved, as he always had, the best storyteller of the lot. I loved his easy authenticity. It had always come as a relief after the calculated dialogues of the royal court. Now it was such a joy just to hear his voice that it hardly mattered what he was saying. He might have recited a list of errands and I would have been glad to listen.

"Naturally, Lord Nólaheru didn't take kindly to Lord Turindo calling you a treacherous madman who ought to be chained up like Morgoth," he was saying at present, as he laid out an array of fruit on a tray. "Well, you know how the Noldor are, Atar. Before I knew it, most of the parliament had taken sides, and it looked like there might be a brawl. I knew I shouldn't involve myself, but I had to defend your honor…"

"You didn't draw steel, did you?" I asked sharply, looking up from the newly-baked bread I was slicing.

Maitimo waved me off. "No, no, but I did pick up my ink bottle – I was transcribing the proceedings – and I threw it as hard as I could. Not to hit anyone, you understand, just to cause a distraction and break up the argument. It struck the far wall of the chamber, and the sound of the breaking glass silenced everyone. Uncle Arafinwë…happened to be standing near that wall. He wasn't injured by the glass, but when the ink splattered, he… Well, Tyelkormo took the opportunity to announce –"

"– that Uncle Aro looked very like a raccoon!" Tyelkormo finished from the cellar door, where he had just emerged from retrieving a bottle of wine. There was not a trace of regret in his voice.

Nerdanel turned and glared at him, but I found I could not suppress the laughter that burst from my lips. This naturally brought smiles and chuckles from my sons as they recalled the incident, and even Nerdanel did not look entirely disapproving. It was so wonderful to laugh, even if it was at Arafinwë's expense. He was so quiet and good-natured that he had never threatened me as much as Nolofinwë did.

"Poor Aro," I managed to say when the mirth had died down. "He has no manner of luck at all. First I left him in the dark, and now Nelyo's ink bottle explodes in his face… What did he do to deserve it?"

"Nothing at all," said Nerdanel sternly, shaking her serving spoon at me, "except try to keep the peace. You owe him an apology."

"My rebirth has consisted almost entirely of apologies thus far."

"It makes a nice change, I don't mind telling you!"

Atar arrived early that evening. He had walked down from the city rather than taking a carriage, saying that he found the air refreshing after a day at court. Nerdanel was a bit embarrassed to offer him nothing finer than cold chicken, salad, assorted fruits, and bread and cheese, but Atar was as gracious as always. "I have always found your cooking more satisfying than anything served at the palace, daughter of my heart," he told her gently. "It's a relief to eat a hearty meal without having to worry about which fork to use."

That night was one of the best I had ever known. We sat on blankets in the yard behind our house, eating at our leisure and swapping lighthearted stories as the sky pinkened and the insects began to sing. It was such a simple thing – sitting down to a meal with my family in the evening air – but to me, it was a precious gift. I could not stop marveling at the sound of my loved ones' voices and the sight of their smiles. How had I ever taken them for granted? In that moment, these ordinary things seemed more beautiful than any work of my hands. I allowed myself to drink them in – to drink in _life_ , in all its colors and sensations.

Most of all, it was wonderful to sit side by side with Atar. I was so starved for his comfort that even the feeling of his arm around my shoulders sent warmth flooding through me and filled my soul with contentment. He needn't have said a word. His steady, protective presence beside me was all I needed.

Atar, however, did not indulge me completely. He had made it quite clear the previous night that he did not intend to let me have my way in all things, as he once had. I knew then that sending Nolofinwë and me off to sort ourselves out had only been the start. He made that clear again now, though he waited until my head was buzzing pleasantly from the wine so that I could offer no real resistance.

"You know, Curufinwë," he began – he only ever used my ill-favored _ataressë_ on serious occasions – "you really ought to be reinstated as High Prince of the Noldor. You could simply resume your duties, of course, but you know how our people are. A formal ceremony might provide a sense of…stability."

I was too contented to argue that such a public ritual might also anger the people who had never liked me and now had even less reason to do so. Instead, I flopped back on the grass and grumbled, "Oh, Atar, you know I've never been one for ceremonies. Reading from an approved script is not my strong suit. So constraining."

Atar's gray eyes grew stern as he looked down at me. "Perhaps I shall invite Her Excellency Senindë, the Telerin ambassador to the Noldor, to witness your reinauguration."

That was enough to make its way even through the haze of alcohol. I stared up at Atar, cocksure smile fading from my lips. "You wouldn't…not so soon."

"Not yet, but you shall have to speak to her sooner or later, and to Eärwen."

"But…surely Tirion and Alqualondë made peace ages ago."

"They did, and relations have been quite cordial ever since. But it might do your reputation a world of good – and more importantly, your soul – to ask the Teleri for forgiveness."

I knew my unease must be obvious. Having confronted my treachery on the Helcaraxë, I would have thought I could face Alqualondë, but Alqualondë was somehow worse. Perhaps it was because I never saw what became of Nolofinwë and his people on the Ice, but I saw and remembered all too much of the Kinslaying. 

I sat back up, setting my wine glass down and tucking my arms around my knees. " _Will_ they forgive me?" I muttered, suddenly sobered.

"They are quite prepared to, should you show them that you are no longer the same man who attacked their city," Atar assured me. His tone was light enough, but I sensed that this was an order, not a request. Whether tomorrow or next week or months from now, I _would_ close the circle and seal the peace between the Teleri and the Noldor.

"Ambassador Senindë is an interesting woman," said Nerdanel. "Ages ago, Tirion staged a dance production to commemorate the Darkening of Valinor. Senindë wasn't an ambassador then, but she auditioned to dance the role of Curufinwë Fëanáro. We thought her a Noldo at the time, as her hair was dyed black. We only found out later that that was because she had come in secret. Her people would have called it treachery for her to portray you – this was before the reconciliation, mind. Well, I knew within the first few seconds of her audition that I didn't need to see anyone else. She was perfect. She had never known you, but somehow she captured all your fire, all your strength, all your grief for your father. It was only after the production, of course, that we learned she was in fact a Teler."

This was almost too much to believe. "Why on earth would a Teler from Alqualondë want to portray me onstage?"

Nerdanel eyed me strangely. "Some said she could afford to extend the hand of peace because she was very young at the time of the Kinslaying and remembered almost nothing of it. Senindë herself said that it helped her to forgive."

Had Senindë's artistic exploration of my character brought her to some understanding of why I did what I did in those dark days? Even taking this into account, she still seemed like an extraordinarily gracious soul. Some people were more forgiving than others, but even so…

I considered her name: Senindë, She Who Releases… Knowing what she had gone on to do, it seemed her parents had given her a prophetic name indeed. She had released the bitterness and hatred born of her childhood suffering and chosen the path of peace. It was said that the Allfather had a purpose for everyone: Senindë's was apparently reconciliation.

"We've worked closely with Her Excellency since we were reborn," Maitimo added. "You should meet her. Maybe not so soon as the feast of your reinstatement, but you should do it before you try to speak to Aunt Eärwen. Senindë can help you…prepare."

I closed my eyes at the sound of Eärwen's name. She and I had been close childhood friends, and that made my betrayal even worse. Though she had the carefree nature so characteristic of the Teleri, she also had a fire to rival my own, and I doubted she was going to forgive me easily even after so many years of peace.

"This is too much for tonight, I think," Macalaurë cautioned gently. "Atar was only released yesterday, after all."

"Thank you, Káno. At least one of you is on my side," I muttered.

"We're all on your side, love," said Nerdanel, wrapping an arm around me. "We all want you to be your best."

I fell asleep that night leaning against Atar, his strong, steady heartbeat beneath my cheek. It was perhaps this that kept the nightmares of Alqualondë away, though I did dream. I saw a white bird flying through the night, free and strong, trailing a banner of light behind it. Stars were born in its wake, and the darkness was dispersed. Even in sleep, I wondered if this might perhaps have something to do with Senindë's remarkable grace. Or perhaps the bird represented my own soul, and what I might become when I broke the chains of my own guilt and doubt.


	10. Currents

In the weeks after my homecoming, Tirion was scandalized by a dark, brilliant political drama put on by a local troupe. Each evening, they withdrew to an ancient barn on the outskirts of the city, its roof rusting and its walls stained black with countless rains, to perform another installment of their tale. They called this place the Lantern Theatre.

The production was plainly meant to satirize the political mess that came of the Darkening. The plot followed three sister princesses, each of whom was accused by one faction or another of murdering her father in a bid for the throne. I was quite certain myself that none of the ladies were guilty, but certain members of their court disagreed. Each of the princesses had to dodge attempts at drowning, stabbing, and poisoning as she worked to uncover the truth of the late king's murder. Every time I thought I knew the answer myself, the story took an unexpected twist that shattered all my theories.

Little did I know, sitting there in the summer grass before the Lantern Theatre, that my own life would soon figure at the center of a political drama played out in the halls of Tirion.

I wished dearly in those days that I had not been slightly drunk when Atar proposed a feast of reinauguration. I might have prepared myself for it otherwise, but as it was, I forgot all about it until the night of the ceremony was nearly upon me. By then it was far too late to retreat. Tirion's noble quarter was full of excited rumors about which dignitaries would be in attendance, what alliances I might form, and what sort of address I might give. My sympathizers at court were affectionately calling the feast "Mereth Aderthad, Act II." I had run across that name in my reading in Mandos, and I doubted I would be as successful as Nolofinwë. I was not easy for the people to love.

Yet some of them _did_ love me, even now. I saw that quite plainly in those first weeks of my new life. I threw myself into rebirth with a passion I had not known in ages, accepting commissions, calling on very old friends, and reintroducing myself to the loremasters of the Lambengolmor. Along the way, I encountered warmth and hope for which I was eternally grateful. It might have been a small thing to the people I met, but to me it was priceless. In the days that followed, I drew more strength from it than they could ever know. They had given me the greatest gift of all: a chance to make things right. The students of the Lambengolmor, to whom I was little more than a legend, looked at me with such admiration and hope that I had to compose myself before I could tell them about the classes I hoped to teach once my strength returned.

Nervous though I was on the night of my reinstatement, I tried to take heart from these things. Whatever happened, I knew I had friends in Tirion.

Nevertheless, I was nearly late for the feast. To keep from wandering the palace corridors and startling unsuspecting servants in the hours before dinner, I shut myself in my old bedchamber. Many of my childhood treasures had been carefully preserved: a quilt my mother made, a stuffed bear with patched and fraying fur, a little library of storybooks written in Sarati. Despite the gulf of years, these things still smelled the same as always. This seemed almost miraculous, and I tried to take comfort in it.

I was too agitated to settle to much of anything, however. By suppertime, the only decision I had made was to don a set of deep blue and silver robes. If Her Excellency the Telerin ambassador was indeed in attendance tonight, these colors might offend her less than my usual scarlet and gold. When Atar came for me at last, he found me perched on the edge of my bed, an ancient storybook in hand, running my finger down the columns of Sarati to give me something to do.

Atar sat down beside me and took my free hand in both of his. "Time to go, _yonya_. It wouldn't do for you to be late tonight."

"Must I?" The childlike plea slipped from my lips before I could stop it. I knew what the answer would be, of course, but I had to try.

"You've been gone for such a long time," Atar said in that soft but implacable tone I had heard too many times since my return home. "You need to reacquaint yourself with your people."

"I don't mind the people," I protested, "only the politicians. You know I've never liked them, and they've never liked me."

"Now, that isn't true." Atar crossed to the old wooden dresser, on which I had carelessly left my traveling case. He took a mesh of woven silver and deep blue gems from it and began to fix it to my hair. "Nólaheru has always loved you as a son. As I recall, he is one of the few whose counsel you ever took. Curulambië, my Minister of Education – she always reminded you of Nerdanel, didn't she? She is retired now, but you'll meet her granddaughter tonight. And Ehtyaro, the Vanyarin ambassador to the Noldor – you were close with his daughter Indil, weren't you?"

I was unconvinced. Reason was unlikely to win me over when I was in this sort of mood. I looked up at Atar skeptically. "And what of Turindo? My sons tell me he's still defaming me."

"Ignore him. He is and has always been your brother's disciple, though even the Nolofinweans don't appreciate his truculence on their behalf. He won't be won over. Turn your attention to those who will: the young ones especially, the ones who have yet to form an opinion of Curufinwë Fëanáro."

I tried to take comfort in Atar's hands as he plaited the silver mesh into my hair, but I felt as though I were being prepared for slaughter. When he had finished, he drew me to my feet and looked me up and down. Then he retrieved my prince's coronet from my dresser and settled it on my head.

"There," he said with satisfaction. "You look the part. Now play the part."

I raised an eyebrow. "The last time I was at court, I drew a sword on Nolofinwë."

Atar scoffed, as if this were utter nonsense. "That was a very different time, Curufinwë, and you were a very different person."

"Can you promise me I won't make a fool of myself tonight?"

"That is entirely up to you."

Suddenly, I was reminded strikingly of what Lord Námo had told me just before I left Mandos: that he knew I was ready for release precisely because _I_ did not think so. Was this a similar case? Perhaps my uncertainty would serve me well tonight after all. I knew that a healthy dose of nerves before a speech often prevented careless mistakes.

I squeezed Atar's hands and tried to put on a brave smile. "Shall we go, then?"

The great hall of Atar's palace was meant to be soothing. No doubt the Noldor were a volatile people even in the long ago-days when it was built. The architect clearly knew they needed all the calming influences they could get. The floor was a pale rosy marble shot with whorls of cream. The walls were a gentle ivory in color, adorned with reliefs of Cuiviénen and the building of Arda. The high, vaulted ceiling was painted with faint golden stars, the pillars drawing the eye up and up as if to the heavens. This was meant to encourage contemplation of the Allfather, though I doubted such pious thoughts crossed anyone's mind during a heated debate.

Tonight, this peaceful, reverent space was filled with voices. Long tables had been added: the high table at the very front of the hall, a lower one just beneath, and several others along the walls. The middle of the room had been left clear for dancing. The vast, shining floor was empty at present, as the guests were seated to await the start of the meal. I had been given pride of place tonight: my seat was on Atar's right, Indis on his left, and Nolofinwë beside her. I was rather grateful to be separated from my half-brother and stepmother. I did not fancy speaking with them tonight.

This is not to say that I had no trials, however. By custom, Arafinwë ought to have been seated beside Nolofinwë, but instead he had been placed next to me. I suspected at once that Atar had something to do with this: another attempt to orchestrate a reconciliation. Arafinwë looked a good deal stronger than I remembered. There was a hardness behind his bright blue-gray eyes that I had never seen before, and steel beneath his gentle smile.

But even this new, fortified Arafinwë was a docile lamb compared to Lord Turindo, who was glaring up at me from the lower table. In my previous life, I was told that he had not always been so dour, though that was all I ever knew of him. He had apparently loved my mother deeply in his younger years. He never quite forgave Atar for winning her heart, and he certainly never forgave me for causing her death. He threw his support behind Nolofinwë instead. He genuinely believed Nolofinwë was the better leader, but I knew he wanted to spite me as well. Eru only knew how many rumors he started about me, though he was never dismissed from his position on the council. He was always clever enough to ensure the gossip could not be traced back to him. That was easy enough in Tirion, where gossip was practically currency.

To avoid the dark looks Turindo was throwing me, I turned to Arafinwë. The wine had been poured before we were seated, and I took a sip to calm myself.

"Is Eärwen not here tonight?" I asked. It seemed an innocuous enough thing to start with.

Arafinwë smiled ironically. "No, she thought she would make you nervous."

"She has every right to make me nervous!"

"Don't mistake her absence for pity, Fëanáro. She wants you to be fully prepared when you meet so that you can give her the apology she is due."

Ah. Yes, that sounded like the Eärwen I knew, the delicate girl with the fiery heart who urged me to escape my governess and race down the docks at Alqualondë. Whenever we did address the Kinslaying, I wanted to be at my best, not the frightened newly-Reborn I was now. Eärwen deserved that much at least.

"If you want to do something for her, and for all the Teleri," Arafinwë on, firmly but without rancor, "there is an observance held in Alqualondë every autumn. It isn't a rite of mourning, more of a remembrance, a promise not to let history repeat itself. Since the reconciliation at the end of the First Age, many Noldor have attended each year to pay their respects and offer their remorse. Go with them this year, Fëanáro."

The mere thought of setting foot in Alqualondë was sickening enough, much less attending a ceremony of remembrance. I felt my poor appetite diminish even further. Well, I had time yet. Much could change in a few months. Eru knew I changed quickly enough after Atar's death, and my rebirth and homecoming were quite as life-altering.

"The Telerin ambassador is here tonight, in fact," said Arafinwë. He nodded down the table. "Her Excellency Senindë. Have you been introduced?"

"Not introduced, but I know her story. An extraordinary woman indeed."

I glanced down the table at the silver-haired Teler, who stood out like a beacon in the sea of dark heads. Her age showed only in her eyes, which were deep blue and penetrating and seemed to contain all the world's wisdom. She had a gentle, kind face, but I sensed latent energy in her slender dancer's body, ready to burst forth at any moment. She tilted her head and smiled softly at me, the pearls in her hair swinging. I returned the gesture only hesitantly, but it gave me enough courage to address Arafinwë again.

"You seem stronger than I remember, Aro," I told him.

He looked at me curiously. "Being left in the dark will do that."

There was no animosity in his voice or his face, but the softness was somehow worse. It left me scrabbling for something to say. Very few people could do that.

"Aro, I… What can I do?"

Arafinwë sighed and put one hand atop mine. His fingers were too soft and smooth to be those of a craftsman or warrior. His was the work of the mind and heart, not of the hands. "What can you do?" he repeated. "You can lead, Fëanáro, truly lead, as a king should. And when Morgoth returns and puts out the sun, you can help devise a new source of light."

The silent implication: _As you should have done before_.

Arafinwë shook his head. "We can speak further another time. You've not been home very long, and you must be nervous enough tonight as it is."

I was indeed. There were many dishes served that night, all exquisite, though I could not bring myself to take more than a few delicate sips of wine. I tried to distract myself by finding friendly faces in the crowd, as I had when I was first learning to speak in public. My gaze fell upon a younger _nís_ seated at the lower table. Her dark chestnut-brown hair and sharp, intelligent features reminded me very much of Lady Curulambië, the retired Minister of Education. She had visited the Lambengolmor often in my past life, and she was one of the few who were not the least bit afraid to debate me. I would later learn that the _nís_ now smiling up at me was her granddaughter Lady Quildalótë, whom Atar had mentioned before the feast.

No matter how I tried to concentrate on her bright gray-green eyes and kindly smile, however, I found myself drawn to Lord Turindo. Every time I looked, he was scowling at me over the rim of his wine goblet, which he never allowed to run dry. I knew I shouldn't allow a sour old lord who had always disliked me to spoil the evening, especially when the Telerin ambassador herself had given me a smile. But it had never been easy for me to shake off the unpleasantness of court life, despite my outward indifference. My pride concealed deep-seated insecurity.

At last, the plates were cleared away. Atar stood up and tapped his wine glass for silence, and the myriad voices were stilled.

"My dear friends," Atar began, his voice ringing effortlessly through the hall, "this is a joyous occasion. It marks a fortnight since my beloved firstborn Curufinwë Fëanáro returned from the Halls of Mandos to begin his new life. I believe it is fitting that he now resume his role as High Prince of the Noldor and pledge his duty in the sight of his people."

It struck me suddenly that none of the Valar were there to witness my vows. The Noldor had little love for the Valar, but perhaps if the Powers had been present, they might have prevented what happened next.

At that moment, Lord Turindo lurched to his feet at the lower table, raising his wine goblet in mock salute. His slate-gray eyes were fixed on me, mouth twisted into a leer. "Yes, let us honor the return of this traitor who now sits before us feigning humility! Don't be fooled, my friends. We know that our former _king_ " – this last word was a sneer – "works dark magic with his words. Have you forgotten the rebellion? Have you forgotten your suffering?"

I had been expecting something like this, but that did not stop my heart from dropping into my stomach. My breath turned shaky. Beside me, Arafinwë muttered, "Oh, for Eru's sake," and laid a supportive hand on my arm.

Thankfully, Atar did not let this pass. "I believe you are drunk, sir," he said in a deceptively amiable, steel-hard voice that brooked no opposition. "Sit down before you make a fool of yourself."

I knew even through my dismay that if I was to establish myself as a competent leader, I could not sit idle while Atar defended me. I had to face this head-on and put it to rest once and for all. I stood up, assuming what I hoped was a confident stance. Now was the time to draw upon all my oratorical experience and let Turindo's words run off me like water.

"I appreciate your concern, sir," I began, giving Turindo a hard smile, "but I feign nothing. I suspect that you, however, do indeed pretend to friendship with our guests. The good people of the Noldor are blessed with keen minds. No doubt they see through you."

There was a general murmur of approval, but Turindo's smile only broadened into a feral snarl. "There, you see?" he cried, encompassing the gathered councilors with a sweep of his arm. "Mandos has not dulled his arrogant tongue! Take no heed as he makes you false promises of duty and service! He will only lead you astray!"

"Arrogant, my lord?" My heart was racing, but I had learned long ago how to keep my voice steady even through nerves. " _I_ have not interrupted a solemn ceremony to spout wild accusations."

"Are they wild? Are they, Your Highness? The Valar cast you into the Void just like the Dark Lord, because you are just like him." There was a decidedly fell light in Turindo's eyes now, that of one who knows he has gone too far and cannot stop. "You lied and manipulated and used your people for your own selfish ends, and they died for it. You have blood on your hands, Curufinwë Fëanáro! How dare you ask our fealty!"

I was beginning to feel disconnected from my body, my world reduced to my orator's instincts. The part of me that was wounded by Turindo's words – the shadow that had hissed the same accusations on Midsummer's Eve – was temporarily far away.

I met Turindo's eyes. "You may take that up with the Allfather. Perhaps you'd like to inform the creator of Arda that He has made a mistake in releasing me."

Nods and more supportive murmurs. Lady Quildalótë even laughed.

It made little difference to Turindo, who had clearly passed a point of no return. "Would that I could," he growled. "He made a mistake the day you were born. You stole Míriel's life!"

I tried to roll my eyes as if this were an old, thoroughly discredited rumor, but I doubt I succeeded. I had entertained this same thought so many times, even prayed for the Allfather to take me instead of Amil. As always, the thought left me feeling cold and utterly unworthy of life.

Nolofinwë came to my aid just then. For once I did not resent it.

"That was never more than a vile lie, and I believe you know it, sir," he said in a voice as cold as the Ice. "However much you loved Míriel Therindë" – he glanced sidelong at me, and I knew he had used that pronunciation as a sign of allegiance – "a babe cannot _steal_ anything, nor be faulted for his mother's death. I have made peace with my brother. You name me your lord, but you do me no honor by perpetuating bitterness and division."

Turindo's face twisted furiously. "If you offer him your loyalty, you are as mad as he is! How could you follow him after you learned the truth of Alqualondë –"

The susurrus in the hall became decidedly uncomfortable at this. Ambassador Senindë's voice cut through it, clear and ringing. She had gotten to her feet. Though she looked quite serene, the rise and fall of the pearl choker at her neck betrayed her harsh breathing.

"I would thank you not to use our tragedy as a weapon in your personal feud," she called out. "Alqualondë chose reconciliation ages ago. Hatred breeds hatred."

Several approving shouts and a rumble of applause. Even through my orator's mask, I was aware of the extraordinary show of support I had just been given. Gratitude welled up within me and gave me strength for a final rebuttal.

I lifted my head to show I was not afraid. "I never knew my mother, but I suspect she sensed this darkness in you, Lord Turindo. I know better than any what desperate love and grief can do. It was love for my slain father than drove me to war. Perhaps you ought to look into your own soul before it's too late and see what your love is doing to you."

Though this was sincerely meant, it sent Turindo over the edge. His face darkened, and he slammed down his wine goblet and pointed a shaking finger at me. "You speak to me of darkness?" he all but snarled. "You harbor more darkness than anyone here. The people will know it when you are sent back to the Void and chained as Morgoth was chained."

Atar had plainly had enough. His face was full of a barely repressed fury I saw only rarely, and his voice was cold and terrifying. "I suggest you leave, sir, before you are made to leave. I will not permit you to slander my son and blaspheme against the Allfather."

Turindo shrugged, his eyes never leaving my face. "Well, it doesn't matter. It won't be long now."

This overt threat was enough. Guards leapt from their positions along the walls and escorted Turindo promptly away. He put up no resistance, and that chilled me to the bone. Surely it meant that if he did intend to assassinate me, his plans were already in motion.

I sank back into my seat. I was shaking – with adrenaline, I thought, until Arafinwë turned to me.

"You did so well, Fëanáro. You –" The smile faded from his face. "You're absolutely white. Even your lips. Do you feel unwell?"

It was only then that I became aware of how cold I was. When I considered this alongside my trembling and my sense of dissociation, Turindo's threat became very real indeed. I looked helplessly at Arafinwë. Suddenly I could not speak; my mouth would not obey my mind. Certain poisons turned the blood to ice, I knew, but…I had eaten nothing!

_Oh, Eru…I did take a bit of wine, didn't I? And the wine goblets were filled before any of us were seated. Turindo might have…_

Arafinwë seemed to understand at once. He was on his feet and calling for a healer even as the world darkened and I slumped from my chair. My awareness slipped away before I ever struck the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nólaheru – "Wise Lord"
> 
> Curulambië – "Skilled/Clever Tongue"
> 
> Ehtyaro – "Spearman"
> 
> Turindo – "He Who Masters/Conquers"
> 
> Quildalótë – "Quiet Flower"
> 
> Senindë – "She Who Releases/Sets Free"


	11. Recovery

Poisoning is a very strange experience.

I wandered in twilit delirium for a time, lost in fevered dreams. Nerdanel rode a massive wolf with eyes like live coals through a dense forest, then charged straight into Gothmog and burst into a shower of sparks. Wraithlike Teleri clawed at my chest with bony hands, reaching for my heart. Nolofinwë sank into the bitter waters of the Helcaraxë. The lantern in his hand cast an eerie blue glow on his upturned, pitying face, and his eyes never left mine.

Amidst all this, I felt a cup placed to my lips. It was filled with something gritty and earthy suspended in water. If it tasted foul, I hardly noticed.

Voices hovered mistily on the edge of my awareness, some familiar and some strange. Briefly, I became aware that I was shivering uncontrollably and my hair was damp with sweat where it met my brow. Someone – Nolofinwë, I thought – drew my blankets up to my chin and wrapped them around my head like a cloak. I nestled gratefully into them.

"I'm so…s-so c-c-cold, Nolo," I stammered through chattering teeth.

His hand brushed my hair back from my face. "Then I shall stay until you're warm." He moved away from me for a moment, and I heard the crackle of a log thrown on the fire.

"B-but I l-l-eft you…in the c-c-cold… You should l-leave me, too…"

"Two wrongs don't make a right, Fëanáro." There was something like a sad smile in his voice. "I'm here."

There were other voices, too, which I dimly recognized as those of Indis, my half-sister Írimë, and Her Excellency Senindë.

"I hardly think she intended this…"

"Well, whatever the case, it might be for the best. The man's been a radical ironclad for ages, and now an assassin as well."

"It was lucky for the prince you were there, Excellency. You're a gifted healer."

"He'll be all right with some rest. The charcoal will do its work. I don't think he swallowed very much of the poison."

"He has a strong will, too."

"He'll need it. Think of it: he's only two weeks out of Mandos, and already someone has tried to send him back. That would shake the hardest of hearts."

"He has his family. That will help him…"

I wanted to listen, to learn who "she" was and what she had or had not intended for Turindo, but my consciousness was slipping again. Soon I was back in that world of fever dreams, where reality was shattered and its pieces rearranged into unrecognizable configurations.

Eventually, I regained an exhausted lucidity. When I came fully back to myself, amber evening light was streaming through the curtains. I was back in my childhood bedroom, my mother's quilt with the little Finwean stars tucked around me. On the night-table to my right was a wooden mockingbird, carved by my clumsy childhood hand. Without really knowing why, I reached for it. My limbs were heavy with fatigue, but I managed to get my hand around it in the end. It soothed me to run my fingers over the smooth wood and the little jet eyes and imagine myself back in kinder times.

Írimë sat beside me, watching all this with an affectionate smile. She was the very opposite of her elder sister Findis, and not only in her Noldorin-dark hair. Where Findis was cool and reserved (so much so that as children we called her Helcatári), Írimë was open and amiable. She exuded a warmth that put everyone she met at ease, and her lively speech could lift the spirit in moments. She thrummed with a hidden energy almost akin to my own. I had always gotten along with her better than any of my other half-siblings. It helped, of course, that she was the youngest of us all and far removed from the throne.

"Welcome back," she smiled when she saw my eyes open. "Nolo wanted to be here when you woke, but he needed sleep himself. You were resting so uneasily until just a few hours ago. We feared for you, but Ambassador Senindë said you were past the worst of it and we needed to wait for the charcoal to work. You…you do know Lord Turindo poisoned you, don't you? Aro said you seemed to realize it just before you collapsed. Oh, Eru, I hope I haven't said too much."

"Don't you need to breathe, Írimë?" I chuckled. My half-sister had hardly paused once in her rush of words. Her speech was as quick and light as I remembered. "Yes, I guessed what had happened. I'll be all right now, then?"

Írimë nodded. The light from the window threw golden sparks into her dark hair. "Ambassador Senindë knew right away what poison you were given, and she knew to give you charcoal to help draw it from your blood. It was lucky she was here."

This came as a surprise, though I remembered hearing Senindë's name while I was half conscious. "Her Excellency saved me?"

"Very likely."

So my father's own councilor tried to kill me, while Nolofinwë and the Telerin ambassador kept me safe. I had allies amongst those who ought to hate me most of all. If anything could counter the chill of death still licking hungrily at my bones, that could. I had to swallow down the sudden lump of gratitude in my throat.

Strengthened by this revelation, I pushed myself up in bed and shook off the dizziness. "Then I must thank her," I told Írimë. My voice was still hoarse from a day and night's lack of use, but it was gaining strength.

"She told me she would very much like to meet you properly," my half-sister went on. "You know she portrayed you in the ballet we staged to commemorate the Darkening, yes? She learned so much about you for that performance, but she's never gotten to speak to you in person. I'm sure she has many questions for you."

I closed my eyes against a wave of anxiety. "Like why I stole her people's most prized possessions."

"That," said Írimë, with a note of warning, "but happier things, too." I quickly realized that like Nerdanel, my half-sister was not inclined to let me brood.

Taking her point, I changed the subject. "Tell me what's become of Lord Turindo, then. I expect Atar will have him banished at the very least."

Írimë hesitated, and I knew at once that something was wrong. My lively half-sister was almost impossible to discomfit.

Then the moment passed, and her smile returned. "You don't have to worry about Turindo. You don't really want to talk about him now, do you? You just woke. Let's talk about something nice, like…hm…fireworks. Nolo said you made magic fireworks for a little girl on the eve of solstice."

The truth of my near-assassination had not yet registered deeply enough to keep me from grinning. I allowed Írimë to lead me down this innocuous path, and soon we were engaged in a delightful conversation about Formenos's quest to make the biggest, loudest, most beautiful fireworks in all the world. I knew I would soon have to confront Turindo's actions, but for the moment, all was well. I was still weak, however, and Írimë's boundless energy consumed me. In the end, I slept again.

When I woke, I found myself looking into Lord Námo's dark amber eyes.

I confess I panicked. Still half asleep and weak as a newborn kitten, I scrambled upright and away from the Doomsman and stumbled across the room. Near the door, I seized a tall metal pole meant to hold a lantern. The weight of it was too much for my unsteady legs. I slid down the wall behind me, pole still held at the ready.

Lord Námo did not move from his seat on the edge of my bed, nor did his misty silver robes stir an inch. He looked at me now with his head canted in exasperation. "Now, really, Curufinwë…"

"You won't take me back!" I insisted, trying and failing to brandish my metal weapon. "I am never going back there, do you hear me?"

"Curufinwë…"

"I am not going to die again!"

Lord Námo raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Curufinwë, you are not dying, and I am not here to take you back to Mandos. I only want to look in on you. I see you are as fierce as ever despite your recent ordeal."

His calm, dry voice brought me back to my senses, and I slowly lowered the pole into my lap. My arms shook with the effort. "You came to look in on me?"

"I want to be sure Turindo's treachery hasn't dampened your spirits." Lord Námo approached me and bent down to take the pole from my trembling hands, his inky hair curtaining his face. Then he offered to help me stand. His hands were cool, but not unpleasantly so; it was a coolness that revived me like a drink of clear water. I realized just then how ridiculous I must look to him, wrapped in white nightclothes and clutching a metal lampstand like a javelin.

Lord Námo waited politely while I settled myself back in bed. Then he turned an almost pitying gaze on me – a rare sight that he reserved for his most difficult charges. "You must not take this too much to heart."

Now that my panic was fading, I found I could think clearly again, though it still seemed as though the attempt on my life had happened to someone else. I knew I ought to feel something – anger, fear, even despair – but I could summon none of these just yet. I only knew that I had been poisoned and I had survived; the implications were so distressing that my mind refused to contemplate them or their attendant emotions. No doubt that would come. This was surely the calm before the storm. There was always a storm with me.

"I haven't," I told Lord Námo honestly. "I don't feel much of anything when I think of it. I knew I must have enemies, of course, but…it's still such a shock."

My former keeper squeezed my hand. "Of course. When the shock fades, then, don't think about it overmuch. Turindo is an exception, not a rule. Even so, I know his words have opened old wounds."

"Well, I suppose he – but how would you know what Turindo said to me? You weren't there."

Lord Námo smiled wryly. "Surely you know, Curufinwë, that the Powers see many things."

A flare of indignant fury burst through me, bringing an almost physical heat and enough strength to launch myself upright.

"You were there?" I demanded. "You were there, and you let that bastard poison me?"

"Peace." Lord Námo held up his hands again. "I saw, but I was not there, nor could I have foreseen Turindo's intentions. Though I see many things from my halls, I do not see all. The prophecies I speak are such as the Allfather has seen fit to reveal to me."

My eyes narrowed. "You certainly pretend to omniscience."

To my immense consternation, Lord Námo chuckled. "I must keep up appearances, lest you children lose all respect for me."

I refused to take his bait. Instead, my thoughts returned to Turindo's words. As my anger drained away, I felt cold again, and I drew my knees up to my chest.

"There is one thing you might answer for me, if you can."

"Of course."

"The Allfather forgave me and cleansed my soul, but… Turindo compared me to Moringotto. I confess I've thought that myself, and recently. Do you…" My voice trailed away, like a little child afraid to articulate his nightmares lest he bring the monsters to life. "Do you think it might be true?"

Lord Námo considered this for a time, which did not comfort me. I had hoped for a resounding "No," though perhaps that was naïve. His answer, when it came, was far more complicated.

"You share certain qualities with Melkor as he once was," Lord Námo began, "Melkor as he should have been. You are both ambitious and clever, and you have a natural desire to take charge of your own fate. These are fine qualities, Fëanáro, the qualities of a leader. But they have a dark side: arrogance, cunning, and tyranny. People like you and Melkor have the capacity to be either very good or very wicked. You must always guard against temptation. Your gifts can so easily turn to curses, as you know."

Oh, I knew. I had learned that lesson all too well in the Void. Still, Lord Námo's words did not comfort me in the least. Might I once again become the cruel, heedless despot of my final years? Must I live in fear of my own potential for evil? If the other side of the coin were as near as Lord Námo implied – as near as I myself knew it to be – then I ought to have stayed in Mandos. That would have been best. Locked away in the Halls of Waiting, I could do no harm. I pressed my head against my knees so Lord Námo would not see the single tear trailing down my cheek.

He seemed to sense that he had wounded me. He took my hand in his pleasantly cool one and went on.

"Do you know why my fallen brother went to such lengths to destroy you, Curufinwë? He was afraid of you. He knew that if he allowed you to remain on the path of light, your gifts would make you his greatest foe. He had to ruin you, lest you turn the full measure of your considerable talents against him. Perhaps he came to Formenos to end your life, but ending your father's served him just as well. He knew you would be shattered by the loss. He trusted you would write your own doom once he gave you a push."

This did not soothe me. It only reinforced what a terrible waste I had caused, and what a light I might have been for the world had I only kept my head.

"And so I did," I muttered ruefully. "I ran straight into death's waiting arms and damned myself along the way. Just what he wanted."

"The Dark Lord is, above all, a chessmaster."

"We've learned that to our cost, haven't we? But what cause has he to fear me? What threat is an Elda to a Vala?"

I chanced a glance at Lord Námo and saw a grin playing around his lips. "Your half-brother was _quite_ a threat, I'd say, and the Noldorin armies of Beleriand were not easily brushed aside. Your people might have defeated Angamando far sooner –"

"– if not for the Doom. The curse we brought upon ourselves."

"Hush. I did not come here to chastise you for sins long past. What I mean to say, Fëanáro, is that you are everything the Dark Lord ought to have been and everything he can never be again: light, beauty, creativity. He hates and fears you for that. When he thinks of you – and he thinks of you often, there in his prison – he thinks of all he has lost in his bid for power. Spite him, child. Live your new life in light and beauty and realize your potential. You could claim no truer victory."

Dispirited though I was, I very much liked the sound of that. Still, something in it reminded me of Nolofinwë's slip of the tongue on Midsummer's Eve, the rumor that the Silmarilli had some part to play in the ending of Arda. Light and beauty; my potential… Did Lord Námo speak of my lost jewels?

Once again, I looked up at him skeptically. "You sent me back for a reason, didn't you? The Valar always have reasons."

Lord Námo remained unflustered. "Everyone is released from Mandos for a reason. Everyone has a part to play in the Music."

I made no attempt to pull myself out of the self-doubt into which I was descending. "You tell me riddles, as you always have," I said bitterly. "How, pray, can you speak of my creativity when my very birth, my first act in this world, destroyed my mother?"

"I don't like to hear you speak the words of the traitor who tried to kill you." Lord Námo's face was impassive as always, but his voice was hard and disapproving. "Perhaps Turindo poisoned more than your body. You must realize that by allowing his vitriol to live in your mind, it infects your spirit also."

"He said nothing I have not thought myself," I mumbled into my knees.

Eru, how I wished I could be anyone else! What must it be like to live without enemies? Lord Námo had warned me that some would not take kindly to my rebirth, but I received such a warm welcome that I allowed this caution to fade from my mind. Why had I been so careless? And how was I to carry on? Was I to look over my shoulder expecting a knife each time I came to court, or to risk the life of a food taster at every feast?

And what must it be like to live an ordinary life, free of guilt and darkness and shadows of the past? Who else in Valinor could claim to have killed his own mother, started a war, and damned his people? Yes, the Noldor made their choices, but I laid those choices before them.

Lord Námo did not allow me to wallow in self-pity for long. I heard his sigh, and then his soft voice: "You ought to speak with your mother. Hear the truth from her own lips. She will set you right."

"Does she want to see me?" I almost dreaded the answer.

"You are her only son, Curufinwë. She has wanted to see you for many, many years, and you've kept her waiting far too long. Hear this: you believe she will spurn you for your misdeeds, but she believes you resent her for leaving you. I very much doubt either of these things are true. You should meet and set both your hearts at ease."

This was not a groundless suspicion on Amil's part. There was a time, when I was young and defenseless against court gossip, when I could not stand to be an object of curiosity and pity as the one and only motherless child in Aman. More than once, thoughtless comments sent me fleeing from gatherings in tears. I never blamed Amil for that, however. I blamed myself, and I blamed the Valar. As I grew older and more confident, I strove to honor Míriel's name in all my works, but my niggling insecurity never left me. Every time Nerdanel gave birth, I feared that whatever fire I had imparted to the babe might consume her as it consumed my mother.

I hoped Lord Námo might be gone when I looked up, but of course he was still there, scrutinizing me with unreadable amber eyes. In a fit of pique, I asked him, "And will I see Lord Turindo if I come to your halls to visit Amil? My half-sister swore he cannot harm me, though she wouldn't tell me why."

This was no more than sarcasm, of course, but as I said this, a strange expression crossed Lord Námo's face. I felt a chill run up my spine.

"You might see him, if I allowed it," the Doomsman said flatly. "Turindo is dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helcatári – "Ice Queen"
> 
> Fëanor is given activated charcoal, which is still used today to treat drug overdoses and poisoning. It's effective at binding a variety of toxins, which helps the body remove them.


	12. Counsel

There was no reason to feel guilty, I was told. Turindo had been growing increasingly radical for years, and his sudden death spared the monarchy and the people the spectacle of a trial. Besides, it wasn't as if Nerdanel had killed him.

I heard the story on the carriage ride home from the palace. Nerdanel had gone with Turindo's guards to ensure he was safely locked away, but he managed to escape. She pursued him and held him at knifepoint in an upstairs study. Turindo mocked Nerdanel, daring her to commit kin-slaughter and avenge me. She told him rightly that he would be a kinslayer himself were his plot against me to succeed. This only made him laugh. He got up on the windowsill, eyes gleaming wildly, declaring he would rather die than be punished for ridding the world of a monster. Poisoning me, he said, was revenge for Míriel Therindë. The next moment, he fell. He died upon impact with the ground.

Nerdanel did not believe Turindo had pitched himself out the window of his own volition. She had seen a flicker of surprise and panic cross his face in the moment he lost his balance. Given his drunkenness and his frenzied state, it was likely he slipped. The royal coroner concurred, and Turindo's death was ruled an accident. So ended the life of my would-be assassin.

Though I understood all too well how his desperate love for my mother had twisted him, I was not sorry to be rid of Turindo. I was relieved, however, that Nerdanel had not spilled his blood herself. The title of kinslayer was not one I wished my wife to bear. She held a different view. When I asked her if she believed herself to be in any way responsible for Turindo's death, her face darkened and she muttered, "I wish I did."

As I had feared, the return of my health left me entirely too capable of contemplating my near-demise. This sent me into a spiral of despair and paranoia. Who else might be plotting against me? Were there traitors in my own family? I had not known such thoughts since I burned the ships at Losgar. The upshot of this was that when we reached home, I locked myself in my bedroom and spoke to no one for two days. I went numb to all but my own fear and self-loathing, staring unseeingly at the rectangle of light from the window as it stretched and dimmed and brightened again. Turindo's words chased each other around and around my mind, spurred on by my own guilty conscience. I did not truly sleep, nor did I truly wake.

My family tried to reach me, of course. Maitimo picked the lock on the door and sat with his arms around me for a long while, stroking my hair as if he were the father and I the son. I was too lost in my own dark soul-night to hear much of what he said. I believe he told me that even if all the world turned against me, there were still eight people who would stand at my side. In the end, he left me some food and drink and slipped quietly out of the room. Maitimo was a fine enough orator to know when an argument could not be won.

Somewhere in the rational core of my mind, I knew I was doing precisely what Nolofinwë had told me not to do. I was locking myself away, physically and emotionally. Why did I always convince myself that no one cared for me when they quite obviously did? Did I love misery? But the alternative seemed too difficult. I could not imagine how I was meant to succeed in my new life with such hatred dogging my steps.

It was Nerdanel who brought me back. She sat with me much as Maitimo had, saying nothing for a long while. I did not realize how cold I had become, in _hröa_ and in _fëa_ , until I felt Nerdanel's warm arms around me. This frightened me even through my sorrow. How could I have slipped so far into despair without knowing it? I ought to have recognized the signs; I had felt much the same way when my father died.

Nerdanel seemed to sense that I was beginning to come back to myself. She took my face between her clever, callused hands and forced me to look into her eyes. There was a fierce determination there that I had come to love.

"He would want this, you know," she told me in a low, firm voice. "Turindo would want you to break, and he would rejoice to see you this way. Don't let him go on poisoning you from beyond the grave. He's only one person, and there are so many who don't share his feelings."

Lord Námo had said much the same when he visited me at the palace. I confess it sounded more convincing coming from my wife. Despite all the kindness he had shown me, Lord Námo was still a Vala, and I would never trust the Valar again. I could not forget that they failed to protect their lands and their people from Morgoth's incursion. They were neither omniscient nor omnipotent, no matter how the Vanyar might preach otherwise. No, my faith was in Eru Ilúvatar, who restored my soul and my life.

I let my head tip forward, nestling further into Nerdanel's hands. "What am I to do, Istyë? How can I live knowing something like this might happen again?"

Nerdanel tightened her grip insistently. "Hold tight to the people who love you. We all have our troubles, Fëanáro, and we all need friends and allies to help us through them. You solve nothing by locking yourself away like this."

 _Easy for you to say_ , I thought bitterly. _It wasn't you Turindo tried to kill._

Nerdanel seemed to sense the direction of my thoughts, for she took her hands from my face and looked gravely into my eyes. "I've been hated, too, you know," she told me. "I've been called many names: Phoenix of the Noldor and redeemer of the House of Fëanáro, yes, but also mother of murderers and kinslayer's mistress. I've been called a madwoman bound for Lórien. Though the Vanguard accepts members of all stripes, its core has always been proudly Fëanárian. When I founded my band of soldiers early in the Second Age, that was not a popular sentiment. Many people spurned us for our allegiance."

"But you did nothing wrong!" I protested. "It isn't the same, Istyë!" I was tempted to shake my hands from hers, but I resisted the urge. She was only trying to help.

"And you are not Morgoth come again, nor should you be chained in the Void! Eru knows you did terrible things under terrible circumstances, Fëanáro, but if you were truly a monster, you would not have repented and been reborn! Why do you listen to people like Turindo when the Allfather himself has told you otherwise?"

"Because Turindo said things I've thought myself!" My voice, already hoarse from disuse, frayed as my throat tightened. "You were with me the night I came home, when I stood before the dais in the Court of the King. You saw me nearly consumed by my memories. There was nothing Turindo said that my own conscience did not whisper to me that night!"

Nerdanel scoffed. "Then it wasn't your conscience you heard, Fëanáro. It was the voice of your own fears."

"How would you counsel me, then, if you're so certain?"

This was uncalled-for, but Nerdanel was unfazed. "Fight these things that haunt you," she said, squeezing my hands. "Start with what Turindo said about your mother. Those rumors have hurt you all your life. I told you I've visited Míriel many times: come with me and speak to her yourself. I promise you, you won't regret it."

This, too, had been Lord Námo's advice. Hearing it from Nerdanel compelled me to consider it, but…what if both she and the Doomsman were wrong? What if Amil hated me for the things I had done – for her own death and the deaths of her grandsons? I couldn't bear that. It was one thing for Atar's councilors to hate me, but my own mother – my own blood – was another matter entirely. I hardly knew Míriel Therindë beyond what others had told me, but I had always found myself desperate for her approval, driven to honor her name because she could not.

I shook my head feebly. "I can't, Istyë…"

She leaned forward. "Why?"

Such a deceptively simple question! "Because…I haven't the courage."

"Do you know how to acquire courage, my love? Do things that frighten you. I was scared to death when I left for war with the Vanguard, but it made me brave. Speaking to your mother and laying your fears to rest will make _you_ brave."

She was right, of course. How many times in the past few weeks had I sworn to make the very best of my new life and leave the rest in the Void? How many times had I promised myself I would not fall into despair when confronted by my checkered past? This was the perfect opportunity to test my resolve and perhaps achieve a measure of healing. Nerdanel was not wrong to say that Amil's death had tormented me all my life. I would be terribly foolish to shy away from a chance to ease that pain, no matter how it might frighten me.

I let myself sink into Nerdanel's arms again, knowing myself defeated. "All right," I murmured into her shoulder. "I'll go and see Amil, but only if you come with me."

When she spoke, I heard the gentle smile in Nerdanel's voice. "Of course I will, my love. I go with you always."

* * *

Míriel Therindë had been reembodied and now dwelt with Lady Vairë, weaving the history of Arda: this I knew. What I did not know was that she required special protections. The living, Nerdanel explained, were ordinarily barred from the houses of Námo and Vairë. Besides the souls of the dead, only Maiar walked those corridors, often without physical form. There was a reason, too, that the Reborn were confined to Lord Námo's gardens and the buildings immediately adjacent. It seemed that the weight of many thousands of years of grief and death hung over Mandos like a pall, and the living found it very difficult to manage. Hence, visitors were rarely permitted (which explained why none of my ardent allies had broken down the doors and set me free). When they were, precautions had to be taken.

When we disembarked from our carriage, I found Mandos far more imposing than I recalled. Gone were the slender golden gates from the day of my release; in their place were high, featureless black walls, perfectly smooth with no visible doors. They might have been made of obsidian, and they seemed to swallow the light. Even the sky looked dimmer where the stone met the heavens. Was this an illusion, I wondered, meant to deter the living? Or were the gardens the dream and the walls the reality?

In light of my poisoning, I was rather skeptical when an impassive-looking Maia dressed all in silver-gray offered each of us a small blue vial. Nerdanel did not seem troubled, however. She took the vials from the Maia, who bowed stiffly and faded from our sight without another word.

"It's all right," Nerdanel told me, sensing my unease. "I've done this before. The living can't tolerate this place for long, and this cordial…well, it helps."

This did not reassure me. A terrible thought crossed my mind then: "Do you mean to say it will make us like the dead?"

To my horror, she nodded. "It will, but not by releasing our _fëar_ from our bodies. That would mean actually dying, and that isn't necessary. I'm not sure how it works, exactly, but…it will make you numb for a little while. Or perhaps that's the wrong word. It will suspend you, shall we say."

"Suspend…?" I said helplessly. I had no intention of drinking a sorcerous Valarin potion that might well kill me.

"Right. You'll still be able to feel, but you won't feel as much. It's like being in a dream. You won't need to breathe or eat or drink or sleep. I think it's meant as a shield against all the death and sadness in this place. Unprotected, that sort of weight would break the living."

This was only getting worse. My eyes narrowed. "Does it wear off?"

"Yes. It doesn't last long, either. Your mother is protected by some sort of enchantment instead, since she spends so much time near the Halls of Waiting. Trust me, Fëanáro. This is safe."

I did trust her, but the Doomsman was another matter. Still, if Nerdanel had taken this potion on her previous visits to Amil and been none the worse for it, there was no reason to believe anything sinister was afoot.

I let out a sigh, half exasperated, half anxious. "Let's get it over with, then."

Nerdanel uncorked her vial. "You'd best sit down. It's a bit…dizzying."

I reluctantly obeyed, taking a seat in the tall, pale grass that grew before the walls. It looked wrong, even spectral, and I did not welcome its touch. Thankfully, I did not have long to contemplate its eerie whitish-green hue. Nerdanel took my hand in hers, I opened my vial, and then we both drank.

The liquid inside was tasteless, but it was plainly not ordinary water. My vial slipped from my hand as a powerful shudder wracked me.

"Is it hurting you?" Nerdanel asked. She too was shaking, though less obviously than I.

"No…but it's like ice."

"That's all right." She put her arms around me and held me close. I was frightened to hear that her heartbeat was slowing down. "It won't be long now. Before you know it, we'll be inside."

She was right. I had hardly begun to wonder how we might enter Mandos with no doors in sight when suddenly, my consciousness was dealt a resounding blow. A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I knew no more.

When I came back to myself what seemed mere seconds later, we were standing in a long corridor lined from floor to ceiling with tapestries. The ones nearest us were peaceful scenes of the Ainulindalë and the building of Arda, marred only by the grayness of desecrated Almaren, but further down the corridor the tapestries were composed entirely of shades of red. I knew these could only be the wars of the First Age, and I did not look too closely at them as we passed. I had no desire to see dead Noldor and Teleri on the beaches of Alqualondë, nor my sons' dear faces twisted by hate and desperation.

It seemed that the cordial had brought us near to our destination in the house of Vairë. Still, I had enough time to consider my current state of being, whatever that might be. There was indeed a dreamlike quality to this existence. Although I knew I was not walking any slower than usual, it seemed so, as if the air around us were composed of water rather than vapor. The silence and stillness might have been oppressive were they not dulled by a strange sense of detachment. There was a shadow of grief here, too, creeping up from the tiled floor and leaking from the walls. I sensed that were I fully aware, I might sink to the ground and cover my face in despair. Mandos never felt so gloomy to me as a houseless _fëa_ , but perhaps that is because death is for the dead.

We were granted a reprieve when we emerged from the Hall of Tapestries into a walled garden. The sunlight still looked rather more insipid than it ought, but the grass was reassuringly bright green, and colorful flowers climbed the brickwork. In the middle of it all, seated before a loom, was my mother.

I had never seen her alive, at least not that I could remember. The portraits did not do her justice. Her hands were long-fingered, poised on shuttle and threads alike with all the delicacy of butterflies. She was smaller than I remembered from my vigils in Lórien, but there was a purpose and energy in every one of her motions. Each gesture was precise. Her face was vibrant, sensitive and fine-featured beneath her silvery hair, and her eyes… They were the same shade as mine.

Even the potion could not keep my throat from closing at the sight of her. This was my mother, my living mother, the person I had longed to meet for so many ages, and now…I did not know what to say to her. There was only an inexpressible yearning mingled with doubt and inadequacy.

Nerdanel looked at me anxiously. Realizing I was struck quite dumb, she took me by the hand and led me towards the loom. "Mother of my heart?" she called softly. "I came to see you. I brought my husband."

Amil looked up with a start, setting down her shuttle. A full range of emotions flashed across her face as she looked at me with her keen eyes: sorrow, hope, disbelief, joy. Her lips formed the words "My boy," but no sound came forth. Then, as if entranced, she lifted her arms and held them out to me.

Despite my fear and the tears threatening to burst from me, I obeyed. It was as if I had lost all control of my body. My soul was in command, and it wanted nothing more than to feel Amil's arms around me and hear her voice for the first time in my memory. I hardly breathed as I walked to her seat and knelt before her, though that might well have been the potion.

Amil stroked my cheek. I leaned into the caress as if my soul were starving and my mother's touch alone could feed it. "My boy," she said, aloud this time. She had a clear, expressive voice even choked with emotion as it was now, and her diction was as precise as I had always imagined. "You've grown so tall, and so handsome."

The dam within me broke. My lips moved of their own will to give voice to ages of turmoil: "Amil…I'm so sorry."

She drew me closer, pressing my head gently onto her lap. Her lilac skirts were liable to be wet with tears when we broke apart, but that mattered little to either of us. She was trembling a bit as she stroked my hair. I thought she might be weeping also.

"Don't be, my darling," Amil murmured. "It wasn't your fault. I knew long before you were born that you would do great things, and I wanted to give you all the strength you needed. I had to rest after that, but…I've wished every day that I had stayed with you and your father."

These were the words I had longed to hear all my life, the words not even Atar could make me believe. They filled a hollow place inside me that had stood empty and aching for far too long, then flooded my soul with love. Relief washed over me in a wave. I had to clutch Amil's skirts to keep from shuddering.

She did not hate me. She did not blame me. That was all I needed to know. It might not last, but for that moment, I was whole. It was the most wonderful feeling I had ever known.

Amil seemed to realize I was quite unable to speak. "My little one, always looking for words," she said. "You don't need words just now. Just let me hold you. It's been so long since I held you."

So I did. I knelt there with my head in my mother's lap, incandescently peaceful, while she worked intricate braids into my hair and talked with Nerdanel. The world could not have felt more perfect. I knew I would have to return and speak with Amil at length, but for now, we were quite content simply to be in each other's presence. I had known a mother's embrace for the first time since infancy: that was miraculous enough for one day.

Amil asked Nerdanel about the state of the outside world, to which Nerdanel replied, "It doesn't feel like the end is coming. Formenos is armed to the teeth, and even in Tirion most people carry daggers, but other than that, everyone is going about their business as usual. Things are happening, though, that never would have happened in the old days. Do you know about Turindo?"

"Lord Námo told me." Amil's voice hardened. "My poor Fëanáro. I always knew there was something dark in that man. I wouldn't wish anyone to be consumed by grief, if that is what happened to him after I died, but even so…"

"He seemed to think he was avenging you."

"Life is precious to the Eldar. It was wrong of your people to steal the Telerin ships, and it was wrong of Turindo to poison my son. Vengeance and love do not sanction the spilling of innocent blood."

"Turindo didn't think Fëanáro _was_ innocent of your death. I confess I might have killed him myself had he not fallen out that window."

"I'm very glad you didn't, dear girl. Save your sword for the dark forces."

"This has all been very difficult for Fëanáro, which is why we're here. He needed to hear that you hold him blameless for your death. Is he all right?"

My eyes were closed by then; perhaps Nerdanel feared the potion was affecting me badly. On the contrary, I could not have felt better.

"Perfectly serene, I think," Amil said warmly. "If you'd like my advice, I think you ought to get away from Tirion for a while. That city was always so terribly political. Go to Formenos, spend time with your allies. That will help you all put this horrible affair behind you, Fëanáro especially."

"You might be right. I think I'll ask him when he's more awake, though."

Amil laughed softly in her throat. "I've waited so long for this moment, daughter of my heart. I am forever grateful to you for bringing my son back to me."

I heard Nerdanel scoff softly. "Eru knows he wouldn't have gotten here without me. He was so afraid you would hate him."

"Oh, no. Never." Amil bent her head to kiss my brow, her sweet-smelling hair falling over my face. "Your mother loves you, dearest one. Wherever you go, whatever you do, remember that." She sat up, and I could feel reluctance in her limbs. "The cordial will be wearing off soon. You'll need to go."

At this, I raised my head. I knew I was free to see my mother any time I liked, but it felt as though we were being parted forever. I clasped her hands and looked up at her, silently pleading to hear that miraculous thing once more.

"I love you, Amil," I whispered.

"And I love you," she said again, to my infinite relief. She kissed me once more, then took my hands and guided me to my feet. "Be good, child, whatever you do next. Be great."

It was only as I stood that I caught sight of the tapestry she was weaving. It was nearly finished: a shining many-rayed star set against the pink and gold backdrop of sunrise.

"Eärendil's star?" I asked Amil.

She smiled gently. "No, darling. Your rebirth."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Míriel can see some outside events, given her task of weaving the history of Arda, but that vision doesn't extend to day-to-day life. Nerdanel has been keeping her updated.


	13. Journey

The cordial did its work. Soon after we said our farewells to Amil, Nerdanel and I found ourselves back outside the obsidian walls of Mandos, dizzy but otherwise unharmed. I returned home with my spirits greatly lifted. My mother’s unconditional love had healed an aching wound, and I felt I could face absolutely anything with that pain set behind me. No doubt it would try to creep back in and assail me in times of doubt and distress, but I knew now that I could seek Amil’s counsel and be welcomed with open arms. Though they were separated, I had two parents again. That was a miraculous gift.

It was well that I had Amil’s love to buoy me, for when I returned home, I was greeted by a letter from none other than the Telerin ambassador, Her Excellency Senindë. She wished to get to know me in person, that we might further strengthen relations between our peoples. She suggested we meet in Alqualondë, but in light of my near-assassination, I was not at all inclined to acquiesce. I did not truly expect the Teleri to do me harm – by all accounts, they were understandably averse to violence – but nor had I expected to find assassins in the court of Tirion. I could not take the risk just yet.

Instead, I wrote to Senindë and asked if she might join my family and me in Formenos. I was eager to take my mother’s advice and journey there. It would have been more appropriate to meet with Senindë in a neutral place like Valmar, but I was not prepared to speak with a Teler for the first time since the Kinslaying without my allies around me. Perhaps that courage would come with time, as I grew used to life again.

I knew Senindë might be uncomfortable in staunchly Fëanárian Formenos, so I reconciled myself to traveling to Alqualondë should she wish it. The ambassador was gracious, however. She had served as a field medic with the Vanguard, she wrote, and she had many old comrades in Formenos whom she would love to visit. She mentioned dancing at a festival called the Night of Three Lights as well, though this name was unfamiliar to me. It seemed the event took place in the autumn, so I would have time to learn.

With this decided, we began preparations.

* * *

I had always dreaded long journeys. In my mind, they were simply riddled with pitfalls: foul weather, lost possessions, twisted ankles, spooked horses, and all manner of other misfortunes. When my sons were young, I spent the whole of our travels in a state of intense anxiety, snapping at anyone who put a toe out of line. By the time we reached our destination, I was often so stiff and sore with tension that it took a hot bath of at least an hour to relax my muscles.

In time, I learned to allow my sons more freedom and to accept that children needed space to play. I knew this all too well, for my childhood in my father’s palace bored me to tears, and I ran away into the wilds of Aman on multiple occasions. This was not the life I wanted for my sons. It got me into grave danger more than once, including a forest fire from which my dear linguistics tutor rescued me ere I could choke to death on the smoke. Thus, I compromised with my children until they reached adulthood, allowing them rein enough to explore and enjoy themselves but never letting them stray too far. Many memorable camping trips and hikes into the woods arose from this agreement.

Besides the journeys themselves, I hated packing. Nerdanel and I always drove each other and our sons mad during this stage of preparation. We had very different opinions on what items were a priority, what kinds of clothes we would need, and how much food we should carry, not to mention the endless interrogations we imposed on our children to ensure that nothing was forgotten. This process usually ended with the boys locking themselves in their rooms to escape our pestering and Nerdanel and I glaring at each other from opposite ends of corridor. We were both so strong-willed and self-assured in our youth that we could stand there for full minutes without saying a word, silently daring each other to surrender. Eventually one of us would apologize, quickly followed by the other, and then we would be in each other’s arms in seconds.

The day of our departure for Formenos was entirely different. Nerdanel and I still bickered as we emptied our closets and dressers and put food supplies in order and got in each other’s way, and at one moment Macalaurë looked as if he might flee from me if I asked him one more question beginning with, “Do you have your…?” But despite this, the mood in the house was light. 

My sons were as eager as I to leave Tirion’s politics behind, and they held Formenos in great affection. I had thought they would hate the city that had been their prison and the site of their grandfather’s murder, but it seemed that Formenos had become quite a haven for them. Spending time amongst their wholehearted supporters healed their souls. Maitimo all but kissed me when I told him that he would have free rein of my library for the duration of our stay. It contented me inexpressibly to think of him curled up in a deep armchair with a book on one knee, the hearth fire lulling him to sleep.

For my part, I could not wait to be off. I had not yet met with the folk of Formenos, though by all accounts they were my most loyal allies, and I was eager for the healing that their company would bring. I felt curiously childlike, as though at any moment I might shout to my sons, “Race me!” and gallop away until I was so breathless with laughter that I could hardly stay in the saddle. The only dark moment was when my thoughts wandered to the great, stark house where I had lived with my family: the house my father died defending.

 _You father is alive_ , I told myself firmly. _You must remember that._

We lived south of Tirion, and the quickest way north was through the city’s opposite gate. Of all my disagreements with Nerdanel that morning, our only truly bitter argument concerned her decision to ride through Tirion. After the incident with Turindo, I was not at all inclined to present myself to the nobles who dwelt near the Court of the King.

“If we go around Tirion, it will add at least half a day to our journey,” Nerdanel asserted. 

“If we go _through_ Tirion, it may cost me my life!” I shot back.

My wife sighed and turned to the sword she had laid on the bed. She slid a few inches of shining steel from the sheath and touched it almost lovingly. It suddenly struck me how much she must love war.

“If anyone dares to touch you,” she said quite seriously, “there will be a fourth Kinslaying.”

“Don't even think it, Istyë.” My voice did not rise, but I snatched the sword from her and slammed it back into its sheath. “I love my life, but it isn’t worth your eternal damnation!”

Nerdanel laughed gently and began to unwrap my white-knuckled hand from her blade.

“I tend to disagree, but of course I wasn’t serious. I would certainly defend you from an assassin, Fëanáro, but I am not yet mad enough to commit kin-slaughter in the streets of Tirion.”

I thought of her encounter with Turindo, and an uneasy laugh escaped me.

Despite our worries, the ride through Tirion passed without incident. It was early enough that the spire of the Mindon was still wreathed in mist, and as court had not yet been convened at the palace, the great square was mercifully empty. A few merchants were out setting up their stalls, some of whom offered me cheerful waves. I allowed myself to relax. I had to stop thinking that all of Tirion loathed me when that was plainly not the case. There was Lord Nólaheru, my father’s chief advisor, who loved me as a son; there was the food vendor who never accepted my coin; there were the countless children I once kissed in benediction or tutored in linguistics. Turindo was one among many who did not share his hate.

It seemed that Tirion contained all that was ordered and civilized about Valinor. As soon as we passed through its northern gate, wilderness opened before us. A wide plain stretched out to the horizon, ringed by thick woods. These were not yet dominated by the sturdy evergreens of Formenos, but a few pines were dotted here and there. Even the wind was faintly scented with something wild and primitive. It put me in mind of Beleriand and deep black lakes mirroring the stars.

The day was a fair one. My sons, despite being shaken awake at rather early an hour, were bright-eyed and excited. Only Curufinwë seemed a bit uncomfortable at first. When I asked him what the matter was, he jerked upright in his saddle as one startled from sleep and said too quickly, “Nothing, Atar!”

Our conversations were light-hearted and lively, punctuated by the gentle thump of our horses’ hooves. Nerdanel kept us all entertained with war tales. One concerned a maiden called the Knife in the Dark, who was imprisoned by Morgoth for so long that when she was freed, her eyes no longer tolerated light. Far from despairing, the lady learned the way of the sword and enlisted in the Vanguard. The blindfold she wore to shield her eyes from daylight did not hinder her one bit. Her time in Morgoth’s dark dungeons had heightened her other senses, and she had developed an additional ability to perceive _fëar_ as certain snakes perceive heat. 

Though her eyes were no longer suited to daylight, they pierced the darkness with ease. When this was discovered, she quickly became the Vanguard’s specialist in night missions. She even helped to dispatch a large Valarauko from deep in a dark dwarven mine. Eventually, she was joined by several other women who, while not afflicted with the same painful sensitivity to light, had learned to fight without using their eyes. Thus, she became the captain of the Vanguard’s elite Night Owls division.

Now, I had a healthy fear of the Valaraukar and what they could do. The thought of fighting one in broad daylight was intimidating enough, but in darkness? How had this Knife in the Dark not lost her mind to fear?

“She survived Angamando,” said Maitimo when I expressed this thought. His voice had taken on a peculiarly fervent tone. “She can survive anything.”

“Nelyo and Thalieth – that’s the lady’s name – have been close friends for some time now,” said Nerdanel. “You can meet her in Formenos, Fëanáro. She’s an inspiration to us all. Her name suits her well: she is living proof that a steadfast spirit can overcome any obstacle. She specializes in fighting in darkness, so she will command Valinor’s defense when Morgoth casts his shadow over us again.”

“You’ve mentioned such plans before,” I said, curious.

Nerdanel rolled her eyes. “The Eldar do not make the same mistakes twice. Did you really think we would not prepare for the Dark Lord’s return? There is reason to believe he will attempt to kill your father again, given how immensely it benefited him the first time – but he won’t succeed. Trust us, Fëanáro. When Morgoth returns, we will be ready, the Vanguard and the standing armies alike. Whether he comes to Tirion, Formenos, Valmar, or Alqualondë, he will find himself in a city prepared to fight.”

Love and pride filled me. I reached across the gap between my horse and my wife’s and clasped her hand.

“My soldier,” I said. “My strong, beautiful soldier, how may I thank you?”

“Thank me when the Dark Lord has been defeated,” said Nerdanel. “I have great confidence in my ladies and in the Valinorean armies, but it doesn’t do to be too sure. A healthy bit of caution can save lives. You ought to take that to heart, _nehtar Valaraukoiva._ ”

I swatted her arm playfully. “I’m not a fool, Istyë.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Oh no? Charging into fire-breathing demons without the faintest idea how to fight them seems foolish to me.”

“You’ll never forgive me for that, will you?”

“No. There are worthy reasons to die, but stupidity and arrogance are not among them.”

I had known Nerdanel long enough to see that this gruffness was her way of showing me how much she cared. Rather than retaliate, I offered her a smile. “It won’t happen again, Istyë.”

“I should hope not.” She returned my grin, then said quite seriously, “If you seek vengeance, you should be fitted with mithril-lined gloves and boots. They’ll protect you from burns. But I warn you, even the finest mithril mail will not save you if Gothmog breathes fire, so don’t test it, Fëanáro!”

“Would I do that, Istyë?”

“I daresay you would.”

There was something terribly sad beneath her teasing smile, and it sobered me at once. I leaned over and brought her hand to my lips.

“You will not lose me again, my love,” I told her. “I promise.”

* * *

We ate our midday meal in the shade of an ancient, sprawling oak, forgoing picnic blankets to feel the warmth of the grass soak through our clothes. 

Nerdanel had no end of stories to tell. She kept us all entertained with the tale of a bar brawl she once fought against some rather ardent anti-Fëanárians.

“Well, I ducked out into an alley to escape the worst of the mayhem,” she said presently. “It was very dark. I heard someone creeping around the corner, so I readied myself to knock whoever it was senseless. I struck out with my fist when I thought I was within range, I heard a cry of pain, and then…”

Here Nerdanel paused for a fit of laughter. 

“Nolofinwë, who joined the brawl to defend your honor, was unconscious at my feet!”

I quickly swallowed my mouthful of food to ensure I did not choke on the laughter bubbling in my chest. “You mean to tell me you knocked out my half-brother because you mistook him for a drunken rogue?” I asked with great difficulty.

“Quite so! My only regret was that you weren’t there to see it.”

I threw my head back and laughed. The sound rose up to fill the afternoon sky.

“Oh, goodness!” I gasped when I could speak, clutching at a stich in my side. “Nolofinwë really ought to stop trying to defend to me. It never serves him well.”

“He’s a good man,” said Nerdanel gently.

“Even I was forced to admit that after our talk on the eve of solstice,” I mused. “He was…extraordinarily gracious,” I mused. Silence fell, and I realized that I was attracting curious stares. “I don’t mean to say,” I added quickly, “that I care for him. He has a noble heart, but I do not care for him.”

“Of course not,” said Nerdanel. She was smiling a strange half-smile, as if she knew more about me than I did.

I lay back in the grass and closed my eyes. Was it true that I did not care for Nolofinwë at all? He had been terribly kind to me since my rebirth. There was his declaration of forgiveness that first glorious evening, his defense against Turindo, and then his vigil the night I was poisoned. He had certainly given me reason enough to care for him, but did I? My ancient resentment ran so deep and so far back through ice and treason that I doubted it could be banished. Even so, I found that thinking of him was a comfort, not a threat. Perhaps he was indeed my ally.

But did I care for him? Truth be told, I was not sure.

 _Well, ambivalence is far from hate_ , I thought. _Perhaps I can change._

* * *

Evening was darkening to night when we saw the rider on the horizon.

We had reached a field suitable for camping. My sons and I had tethered our horses and raced each other through the surrounding woods on foot, reveling in the golden shafts of sunset that pierced the trees. I had just overtaken Tyelkormo and the Ambarussa when my bootheel caught on a rock and sent me sprawling into a creek. I sustained no more than a scraped knee and a torn trouser leg, but the water was cool, and I was shivering as we made our way back to camp. As my breathless exhilaration drained away and the night breeze picked up, a seat by the fire and a warm blanket began to sound luxurious indeed.

It was Tyelkormo who first saw the rider: his hunter’s eyes had always been keen. He took a spyglass from one of his saddlebags and peered through it, shading his vision with his free hand. His face brightened at once. “It’s Haru Finwë!” he announced.

“Atar?” I closed at a run the distance between our camp and my father’s elegantly trotting horse.

Atar reined in his mount as I reached him. He was as stately as ever, clad in a dark red riding habit with his hair swept back by a simple circlet I made for him in my youth.

“I didn’t think you were coming!” I laughed, filled with joy beyond explanation. “When I invited you, you said you would be occupied with choosing a replacement for Turindo!”

Atar swept down from the saddle with well-accustomed grace and drew me into an embrace. “I’ve made my nominations, all worthy candidates; the parliament will do the rest. This explains why you frightened me half to death by disappearing without a word! Have you any idea – Curufinwë, why are you soaking wet?”

I had forgotten the chill of my wet clothes in my eagerness to see my father. “Oh, I had a foolish race with my sons and I fell in a brook. Please don’t worry.”

Atar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re shivering. You must be cold.”

I laughed carelessly, but my voice shook. “Just a little.”

Atar was plainly not fooled. He undid the golden clasp of his cloak and fastened it about my shoulders. “You ought to take better care of yourself, Curufinwë.”

Annoyance flared briefly within me. My father had an irritating habit of treating me like a child.

“I do perfectly well, thank you,” I replied, resisting the urge to wrap my arms about myself and let my teeth chatter.

“Clearly not. You cannot fight me, little one. I always know best.”

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. I tried not to let him see how grateful I was for his arm around me as I led him back towards the fire.

* * *

My pride yielded to my desire to be warm, and I slept in Atar’s arms like a child. At some point during the night, I began to sense a vague sorrow closing in upon me, as a spy who lingers just outside a circle of firelight. A wolf’s howl split the darkness. I felt a shadow descend.

“That sound makes me sad…and lonely,” I murmured. As a child, I had occasionally fallen into such black moods without explanation. They consumed me so completely that I would lock myself in my room and curl into a ball with tears running down my cheeks.

“Peace, Curufinwë,” said Atar, faintly anxious. His arms tightened protectively about me. “You are not alone, and you have no reason to be sad.”

The wolf howled again, but this time there was an answer.

“Of course not,” I said. My voice grew thick as sleep overtook me. “I’m being silly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thalieth – Sindarin, “stalwart, steadfast.” Hence Nerdanel’s comment.
> 
> Nehtar Valaraukoiva – Quenya, “Balrog-slayer.”


	14. Formenos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a bit of a longer chapter this time!

Formenos was not meant to be beautiful, and there was nothing of beauty about it.

The high walls, the stark towers, and the rough-hewn cobbled streets, all of gray stone, reflected what the city was to me at the time of my exile: a fortress and a prison. It was a perfect mirror of my bitterness and paranoia: sturdy, defensible, and utterly cheerless. My fury at the Valar for exiling me and my sick envy of Nolofinwë’s regency sapped all desire to build myself a beautiful cage.

The day we approached the gates was a fair one, yet I found myself shivering at the sight of those high, black iron bars. The sudden wave of sadness I had felt listening to the wolves howl in the dark returned stronger than ever. Memories of my exile arose unbidden: locking myself in high towers and asking bitter questions of my mother’s ghost; falling so deep into despair that I could not even summon the strength to warm myself before the hearth. I remembered being chilled and weak, and waking in the mornings feeling as though I had not slept at all, and clasping Atar’s arm to keep from crumpling to the floor. I remembered losing faith in all but the works of my hands. I exchanged the company of my sons for hours spent in the depths of the treasury, gazing upon the Silmarilli with a desperate, greedy love. Surely, I thought then, my jewels would not betray me as the Valar had. As Nerdanel had. As my mother had.

All of these things – my isolation, my imprisonment, my mistrust, my disillusionment with the so-called “blessed” realm – soon damaged my health. This concerned Atar greatly. He often tried to spark my creativity in the hopes that a new project would rejuvenate me. Two years into my exile, I could no longer stand to see him so anxious. To soothe him, I designed an elegant hunting lodge to be built in a secluded patch of woodland beyond Formenos’s northern gate. The more I dwelt upon the idea, the more favorable it became. Though still within the bounds of my exile, the lodge would offer me an escape, a place to run when the walls of Formenos began to crush the life from my body.

With the help of a band of hardy Noldor, it was built. It was everything Formenos was not. The architecture was simple but rustically charming. The rooms were high and airy and smelled of sun-warmed wood, and there were windows all about to let in what limited Treelight the north received. It was a place of peace and freedom, of rest and rejuvenation. It was a most welcome change from the dreary, imposing stone manor we lived in in the city.

A contented sigh fell from my lips as I imagined the wonderful, peaceful days ahead for me and my family. Newly shielded, I turned my attention back to the city gates.

They were set directly in the center of Formenos’s outer wall, which was ringed with guards. The two who stood nearest the gates, on the left and right, held scarlet banners snapping proudly in the wind. These were emblazoned with the eight-rayed Star of my house and topped with deadly silver spearheads. It did not escape my notice that the guards’ swords appeared to be sheathless. Nerdanel had not exaggerated the Vanguard presence here, either: many of the sentinels were female. They bore their weapons and heraldry with the easy grace that comes of many battles and many victories.

I could not help but shake my head in wonder. In the short time I was at war, I knew of only one maiden who could fight, and she was not a Calaquendë but a Sinda of Mithrim. Since then, it seemed that _nissi_ had become an integral part of Aman’s military forces. It was a striking reminder of how the world had changed since that long-ago noontide of bliss and beauty.

We halted near the gates to let the sentinels have a good look at us. Soon, a clear female voice rang out, tinged with the harsh accents of Exilic Noldor:

“Andion, gatekeeper of Formenos and Captain of the City Guard, would have you state your names, your house, and your business here!”

I took grim satisfaction in seeing all the sentinels shift their hands to their sword-hilts in crisp unison. No, Nerdanel had not been lying. It was plain that security in Formenos had improved immeasurably since the Darkening.

“High King Finwë Noldóran, High Princess Nerdanel Istarnië, High Prince Curufinwë Fëanáro, and the seven princes of his house ask passage through your gates,” I called up to the watchers. “We seek refuge from the evils of Tirion politics!”

As I expected, there was no laughter. Though Formenos knew I had been reborn, I had sent no word of my visit. My arrival at the gates now was a complete surprise. That much was obvious from the way the sentinels began shifting uncomfortably and looking at each other. I could not hear their voices, but I guessed they must be whispering in shock or joy.

There was a broad smile in Andion’s voice when next she addressed us, and a good deal less decorum:

“Please do come in, Your Highness!” she called down to us. “My king, my captain, and my princes, you are most welcome as well!”

She struck the stone beneath her feet with the end of her flagstaff, depressing a pressure plate. The iron-barred doors before us swung open with a screech of hinges, and our way into Formenos was clear.

My sense of sorrow and isolation had vanished. _Why indeed should I feel sad?_ I thought. _I do not come here as an exile sent from the city of his birth. I do not come here as the grieving heir to a dead king, retracing his father’s last steps amongst the ruins. I come here to be with people who love me and have pledged their lives to my defense. I come of my own free will. I come home._

This last thought took me entirely by surprise. I had never thought of Formenos as a home. It was a cage of steel and stone, an instrument of the Valar, contrived to break my spirit and diminish me into a cowering servant. More than that, it was the place where my father was murdered. Yet now, with the sky bright and clear and Atar riding at my side, that had changed. This was a place where I was welcomed with open arms, and as long as my family was with me, it could indeed be home.

With darkness banished from my mind, I turned to meet Nerdanel’s warm smile.

“I told you the people would be overjoyed to see you,” she grinned. “You saw the sentinels nearly break ranks when they heard your name. It will be a miracle if we can pass through the streets at all once word of your arrival spreads!”

“The soldier who addressed us is one of yours, I imagine. Do all the ladies of the Vanguard take masculine names?”

“No, Andion is the only one,” Nerdanel laughed. “Before she was born, her father was certain the babe would be a boy, and he chose a name accordingly. Obviously, this was not the case. Even so, Andion proved herself such a warrior, joining the rebellion and fighting to her death in Gondolin, that her name was never changed. Since her rebirth, she has never suffered any evil to pass the gates of Formenos.”

“Aye, between the Vanguard and the standing army, Formenos will be well-defended when the Dark Lord returns,” said Atar amiably. “The same defenses have been raised in Tirion, Alqualondë, and Valmar. Fear not, Fëanáro: wherever the Dark Lord chooses to strike, he will have a nasty surprise.”

“I pray you’re right,” I murmured, suddenly sobered. “There are many I can’t bear to lose.”

* * *

Though Formenos was little changed in composition, it could not have felt more different. All evidence of Ungoliant’s filthy webs and the Dark Lord’s terrible spiked mace had been erased. Any buildings damaged in the attack had been repaired, and new ones seemed to have been constructed. Fëanárian and Finwëan banners hung from nearly every structure, lending flashes of scarlet and gold fire to the drab gray stone. The largest banner of all adorned the Menelmindon, an imposing spire with a great beacon lamp hung from a wrought-iron arch. The pennant hung from the bottom of this lantern, emblazoned with my father’s sigil, visible across the length of the city. After the Darkening, that lamp was among the only lights in Formenos, yet it never seemed to reach my heart.

 _May you pierce the darkness when it comes again_ , I thought, _for my people’s sake if not for mine. May you bring comfort and guidance to the folk of this city._

More than all this, there was a liveliness in the air that I had never felt before. The people of Formenos, in my memory, were grim and quiet, loyal to a fault but never cheerful. That had changed. There was still a martial air about the place, perpetuated by various uniformed soldiers, yet all the coldness was gone. There was a new sense of purpose now. Formenos had transformed itself from a shameful cage to the center of the coming war.

Today was plainly a market day. All along the wide, cobbled high street were stalls adorned with brightly-colored awnings. People were bustling about with baskets over their arms, filling them with fruits and vegetables and cuts of meat packed in ice. No crowds yet lined the streets to impede us, but we did cause quite a stir as we passed. Many of the market-goers fell to their knees in deference, and a few prostrated themselves flat upon the ground. Some walked alongside my horse so that they might kiss my hand and ask Eru’s blessing upon me and mine. The joy in their faces was heartfelt and unbounded.

For all that this show of love embarrassed me, I was also touched beyond words. This was just what I needed. Their loyalty was the perfect shield against folk like Turindo and against my own shame.

By the time we had passed through the great square and come nearly to the end of the high street, I felt more like a king than ever. I took great joy in returning salutes from the Vanguard ladies and the Valinorean soldiers, and holding children in my lap to kiss them in benediction. To Formenos, I was a martyr, not a sinner. I knew this was untrue, of course, but I permitted myself the fantasy.

I was so wrapped in joy that it was a moment before I realized we were riding through the very place where my father’s body was discovered. He had been lying beneath a shattered tree, sap dripping thick and sweet down the bark…

I glanced back at Atar to reassure myself that he was still there. He cast me a sharp look, as though he sensed my thoughts, but I managed to wave him off.

Nothing unusual happened until we had nearly reached the manor where I spent my exile, which stood just past the northern end of the square. There, a soldier crossed our path. She was dressed in the manner of the Vanguard: her honey-brown hair plaited over her right shoulder, a Fëanárian star glittering at the end of her braid, and lightly armored in a leather jerkin. Her build was small and sturdy, her coloring tending towards brown. I sensed extraordinary strength flowing through her veins. She wore a blindfold of dark fabric over her eyes. For all that she could surely see no more than vague shapes, I had sensed she knew exactly who we were.

She threw Nerdanel the customary salute and made Atar a low bow, spoke softly to Maitimo for a moment, then turned to me. The scrutiny of her concealed eyes made me feel as though I were standing before Lord Námo again, with all my soul laid bare.

“Your husband, I presume, Arhestë?” the soldier asked in a gentle voice laced with the rougher accents of Sindarin. I suspected that Quenya was not her mother-tongue.

“Aye, returned to us at last,” said Nerdanel with a warm smile.

The soldier offered me a deep obeisance. “I thought so,” said she. “I have never met a spirit of such strength as yours. Welcome home, prince.” She reached up to take my hands. “I do hope we can get to know each other better. Will you sit on the war council with Arhestë and me?”

“I… Well, truth be told, I know very little of war.”

“I have faith in you,” the soldier smiled. “You will learn quickly enough. Your lady wife knew almost nothing of war when she founded the Vanguard, and look at her now: only one loss to her name and the lowest casualties of any Eldarin army.”

“Only because my force is the smallest of all Eldarin armies,” said Nerdanel modestly.

“I don’t believe that for a moment!”

A breeze came up then, stirring our hair. Our horses tossed their heads restlessly.

The soldier swept us all with her hidden gaze and said quite suddenly, “You’d best take shelter. A storm is coming.”

With that, she threw us another salute and was off.

Even in the time of the Trees, Formenos’s weather was unpredictable at best. The city was plagued by heavy snows, icy rains, and damp fogs that soaked into everything no matter how well it was packed away. I suspected that without the Trees to stabilize the climate, conditions would be even more volatile now. Yet even so, with a cloudless blue sky above us, I found it difficult to believe that a storm really could be coming. What, then? If not the weather of the world, then perhaps something more dire was brewing…

"Is she always so strange?” I asked Nerdanel, deeply unnerved. My strange fear and sorrow had begun to well up cold within me again.

“Oh, there’s nothing strange about her,” said Nerdanel. She seemed quite unperturbed by the warning we had just received. “I ought to have introduced her first. That was Thalieth, the legendary Knife in the Dark.”

Ah, of course: the survivor of Angamando whose eyes could no longer tolerate light. “She seemed to know you, Nelyo,” I told my eldest.

“We’ve been close friends for some time, as Amil said on the journey,” said Maitimo. “We met on Formenos’s war council.”

“Is she foresighted?”

“Perceptive more than foresighted, though I think she was only offering us some friendly advice in this case. Storms come up quickly here.”

Tense as I was, this struck me wrongly. How could Maitimo take Thalieth’s warning so lightly when it surely portended some hideous doom?

“Well, we shouldn’t delay.” My voice was as brittle as a frozen branch. “If we linger any longer, it will be nightfall before we arrive, and one of us will have to ride ahead and clear the path of wolves.”

Wolves… A memory arose, and with it, I understood why the howls I heard on the first night of our journey made me so sad. Their voices were forever linked with the Darkening.

When I learned of my father’s death, I fled heedless into the blackness and ran until my legs gave out beneath me and I collapsed on a desolate hillside. I remembered throwing my head back and hearing an unearthly, keening scream fill the air. In the madness of my grief, I thought it was a wolf at first, and only after looking about in terror did I realize it was my own voice. I had become the wolf howling alone at the cold stars. But I had no packmates to answer me.

A breeze blew again, and I found myself shivering. I was fully convinced now that Thalieth’s words were a dire warning, and suddenly I wanted to flee back to Tirion.

I was terribly, irrationally afraid. My thoughts began to race. If we could not flee, then we had to get to shelter. We had to reach the lodge. It had been spared Moringotto’s long-ago assault; perhaps we would be safe there when this “storm” struck…

I looked back at my family, all of whom appeared quite relaxed. Nerdanel was saying something to Maitimo about arranging for him to spend time with Thalieth. None of them seemed to be struggling against memories of the Darkening as I was, not even Atar.

“We must go!” I urged. “We aren’t safe here!”

“Fëanáro,” said Atar gently, bringing his horse alongside mine, “I think we ought to stay at the manor tonight. We’re nearly there. We can have a meal and freshen up and make for the lodge in the morning. If a storm is coming, we ought not to be caught on the road.”

The thought of spending even a single night in the house where my father lost his life nearly sent me out of my mind. Listening to the people of Formenos offer their love, I had thought I could face it, confront my demons and drive them out. Now, the thought of walking through halls that once ran with Atar’s blood and rang with his screams was unbearable. My heart fluttered in frantic, sickeningly irregular rhythms, and I began to slip into the past.

"No,” I gasped. I knew my fear must be plainly, childishly obvious, but I could not stop. “We must not stay here! Do you think Lady Thalieth was speaking of a summer storm? How do you know it wasn’t something far worse?”

Atar’s placid countenance did not waver, though I saw something dark flash into his eyes. “You must trust me, _hinya_ ,” he said quietly. “If I believed that Lady Thalieth’s words portended anything more than a thunderstorm, this city would already be on high alert. As it is, I don’t see any cause for concern. I’ve learned since my rebirth that the people of Formenos have an uncanny ability to predict changes in the weather well in advance. ‘Tis why the market was so busy, I imagine: folk are replenishing their stores of food in case the storm keeps them indoors for a while.”

A horrific image flashed into my mind: a massive spider creeping along the ceiling of a darkened corridor, its bloated body covered with hairs and venom dripping from its clacking fangs as it overtook Atar from behind. My horse, sensing my fear, tossed his head so violently that I was nearly unseated. I stroked his glossy black neck to calm him.

“I cannot stay in that house,” I said weakly. “I cannot.”

“Why?” asked Atar. “Because I died there?”

The blunt words, stripped of all euphemism, struck me with a physical force. It felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Because, Fëanáro, I am alive,” said Atar. It was plain that he could not stand to see me in such distress, but his resolve held firm. “You have no reason to mourn me. I know how difficult it will be for you to return to that house. The reborn often find their emotions heightened, and I don’t mean to diminish that. But if you don’t face this, I will never truly reborn. Not in your mind. You will keep me in Mandos.”

“We all know what it is to be reborn and confront ancient demons,” said Maitimo softly. “We’ve fought the same battles. We don’t think you foolish in the least.”

“And we’re all here to help you,” said Nerdanel. “If tonight you find your nightmares very strong, we’ll fight them with you.”

I looked helplessly from person to person, silently pleading for release.

There was pain in Atar’s eyes as he brushed his fingers against my cheek. “You’re absolutely white, _hinya_ ,” he said. It was plain from his voice that he wanted to take me to the house as little as I wanted to go there. “Even your lips have lost their color.”

Nerdanel leaned over in her saddle and clasped my wrist. “His heart is racing,” she told Atar anxiously, “and his hands are cold.”

“Perhaps we should push on to the lodge,” said Macalaurë. “Damn the storm. Is it truly worth escaping if it puts Atar through hell?”

My father shook his head gravely. “I do believe that Fëanáro must do this if he is ever to move forward.” He glanced back at me, my fingers white-knuckled and trembling in my horse’s mane. “Though I confess the prospect appalls me. Come now, child, you aren’t being sent back to the –”

Tyelkormo cleared his throat, stopping Atar short. I saw that all my sons save Macalaurë had gone pale.

“You lived an admirable life, Haru, and you died a martyr’s death,” he said uneasily. “Because of that, there are things you will never understand about the fate that awaits the damned beyond Lord Námo’s gates. I’m glad you don’t understand. But please, I beg you, while you are in our company, please do not mention the…the V-Void.”

He shuddered visibly, and this frightened me. Tyelkormo was never one to give in to fear or pain. As a child, he often ran wild in the woods near Tirion and returned covered in cuts and scrapes, but he never once complained.

I had never allowed myself to dwell on what visions my sons must have seen in th Void, but Tyelkormo’s reaction made it plain. The sight of my sons’ thinly veiled terror startled me from my own selfish fears, and slowly, I brought myself under control. As their father, my duty was to take their sufferings upon myself. I considered also that they too loved my father, and they had been there when he died, at the epicenter of Moringotto’s attack. The prospect of returning to the house could not be pleasant for them, either.

“Peace, my sons,” I said after a moment of heavy silence. “All is well. Your _haru_ is right, of course: Lady Thalieth spoke of a thunderstorm, and nothing more.”

A frisson of relief ran through my children as I came back to myself. I smiled as reassuringly as I could manage.

“Come, we ought to return to the market and get some food,” I went on. “Our provisions are nearly gone, and I wouldn't want us to go hungry if foul weather keeps us indoors for several days. I haven't forgotten how much you can eat.”

Affectionate laughter greeted this statement, feeble at first, then gaining confidence. Nerdanel cast a last concerned glance at me and then turned to lead us back to the square. I lingered behind, my hands still frozen to the reins. It was a moment before I could remember how to ride, and a moment more before I could force my body to obey my mind. Atar stayed with me, his eyes filled with concern and no small measure of guilt.

“Know, _hinya_ , that when I felt your spirit enter the Void, I wanted nothing more than to break the Door of Night and hold you close. If I could have taken you from that place by the sheer force of my love, I would have.”

I waited for that word, _Void_ , which signified so much more than physical emptiness, to strike me to the core, but it did not. My heart merely skipped several beats in the wake of a cold shiver. Despite this, I could summon no pride.

“You could not have done so,” I said flatly. “Love has no place in the Void.”

Atar canted his head curiously. “Oh no? I daresay that were it not for the love of our Father above, you would still be there.”

He reached across the gap between our horses and took my hand. 

“What is coming will come, but the Children of Eru will always conquer.”

Why did I find no comfort in that thought? Perhaps it was because I had been told that the blackest darkness of all, the unknown darkness that crouched beyond the end of all things, was not so far away now. It is easy to say that horrors yet unconceived will be conquered. It is quite another matter when those horrors are imminently approaching.

* * *

We were warned again and again of the coming storm as we made our way back through the square, refilling our waterskins at the communal cistern and supplementing our meager provisions with fruit, vegetables, meat, and firewood. The words were uttered so often and so casually that even I found myself relaxing.

I managed to strike up lively conversations with the grocers on the way. Their sense of humor, coarser than that of the Tirion elites who tittered behind their hands as though laughter was a capital crime, refreshed my heart. Slowly, I let go my princely airs and allowed myself to fall into place with these unpolished, hardworking people.

We had quite a surprise on our way out of the square. Without warning, a black-haired _nér_ appeared in the upstairs window of a nearby house and began to sing in a rich, strong baritone. The tune was an old one. I knew it was meant to be stately, but I found that I much preferred the singer’s lively tempo. There was life in it, a sense that the performer truly knew what he was singing about.

He delivered one phrase, and then his voice was joined by that of another _nér_ standing in the window of a house across the square, this one a bright tenor. After his opening phrase, a _nís_ sent forth her resonant alto from the balcony of her home. One soprano and then another completed the quintet, each standing at their front doors on opposite sides of the square. The song soon swelled into a rollicking canon:

_As it was promised to Tata our father,_

_To Finwë and his heirs be glory forever!_

The song ended all too soon. Shouts of “Welcome home, Fëanáro!” and, “The Lambengolmor of Formenos wish you joy!” rang through the square, and then the singers disappeared back into their homes. I realized that this was a homecoming gift from people who, in all likelihood, I once tutored in linguistics.

Touched and thoroughly delighted, I turned to Macalaurë. “Did you have aught to do with this, O greatest of minstrels?”

“Nothing at all,” he laughed, “though I wish I had! What a gift that would have been! I must say I did not agree with their tempo, but I was pleasantly surprised that they held the piece together at such distances from each other. ‘Tis no easy feat, not with a five-part fugue.”

“Let it be, Káno!” Tyelkormo interjected. “They were brilliant, and I, for one, was glad they brightened up the tempo. Eru knows many of the old hymns could use it.”

Macalaurë looked rather indignant.

“Did you think you were the only Elda with opinions on music?” I asked, nudging him playfully in the ribs.

“Of course, just as you think you’re the only Elda with opinions on anything!”

“The only Elda with opinions worth hearing,” I countered without missing a beat. It was inexplicably refreshing to dip into the sardonic wit for which I’d once been infamous.

This statement earned a collective groan. “I wasn’t serious!” I protested when Atar cuffed me gently over the head.

“Oh, I daresay you were!” Nerdanel laughed. “Not even Mandos could strip you of all your arrogance!”

* * *

The house in which I spent my exile matched the rest of Formenos: solid, grim, and unadorned. It was a sprawling, forbidding manor of dark gray stone, its back abutting the Menelmindon so that one could exit directly into the tower. The peaked roof was of wood tarred black to keep out the rain, and the front doors, sealed with a thick metal crossbar, matched it. They were so heavy that it took two full-grown _néri_ to open and shut them, and only slowly. I remembered vividly the night I slammed those doors in Moringotto’s face. I strained my arms so badly I could not work in my forge for a week.

I insisted on lifting the crossbar myself and helping Maitimo push the doors open. I had to be the one to unlock, physically and symbolically, the place where my life shattered. While my sons stabled the horses and carried in our bags, I forced myself to walk alone through the house, imagining the Darkening in vivid detail.

The house had been repaired long ago, but in my mind, it was in ruins. The stone walls were crumbling, the corridors choked in Unlight thick as tar, the floor splattered with bright drops of blood. I saw pieces of furniture broken and charred, and great scorch marks lacing the walls like black lightning. Eventually, I made my way to the courtyard where Atar’s body had lain. The tree beneath which he died had grown tall and gnarled since then. I forced myself to see it riven down the middle, sap running down the bark, the roots soaking up blood.

I called to mind what Atar’s body had looked like: white and still, eyes fixed in a frozen stare. There was no strong, steady heartbeat in his chest, as there had been when I was a child seeking shelter in his arms. There was nothing to wake me from that most terrible of dreams.

I had not recalled the Darkening in such detail since writing my memoirs in Mandos, and it was as if I had never done so at all. There was something about being back in Formenos that made it all a thousand times worse. I told myself over and over that it could harm me no longer, tried to banish that ancient ghost as I had banished the shadow of my former self on Midsummer’s Eve. _Your evils have long been healed_ , I told it. _Your only power is in my mind, and I can take it from you at will._

I was unsuccessful. By the time I returned to the doors of the house, I was shaking all over, but I was not weeping. That was something.

I could sense that I had done a foolish thing, however. I ought not to have tried to confront so many memories all at once. Eru, why was I always so hasty? I might have survived my war had I only taken counsel with those around me.

What if I had not abandoned Nolofinwë, for instance? He would have told me to submerge my head in cold Lake Mithrim until I came back to my senses. Before that, at Alqualondë, he would have pinned me to the ground and stopped me from taking the swan-ships by force.

And before that…could we have saved my father? Could we have stood together before Moringotto and sent him fleeing back to Angamando?

It was almost unbearable to think how many evils might have been prevented.

Beneath all this was an unsettling sensation that my memories of the Darkening were not my worst enemies. Something worse lay beneath them, something even more terrible than the fact of my father’s murder. This knowledge gnawed at the back of my mind, spreading tendrils of unease through my heart. I did not dare to consider it.

I knelt there for a while longer, trembling slightly, until Nerdanel came outside to fetch me.

“Come back inside. Supper is almost ready, your father is worried, and I don’t think you should be alone,” she told me softly. I allowed myself to lean against her, reveling in her warmth. I had not realized how cold my fear had left me. “At least three of our sons are grumbling that they had to unpack by themselves.”

I smiled grimly. “I would rather have been unpacking than reliving the worst night of my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andion – “Son of the Gate.” From Quenya
> 
> Arhestë – “High Captain.” My title for Nerdanel as head of the Vanguard.
> 
> Menelmindon – “Tower of the Firmament/Heaven.” My own invention.
> 
> Tata – the second of the three ancient elf-fathers who awoke in Cuiviénen. The Noldor of Valinor are descended from his clan.
> 
> The song performed in Formenos (you can assume it would actually have been sung in Quenya) is based on the fugue “Sicut locutus est” from J.S. Bach’s Magnificat. [Here's a recording of this movement.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gUEE_SAemLc) The original Latin lyrics and their translation go like this:
> 
> Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros, (As He spake to our fathers,)  
> Abraham et semini ejus in saecula. (To Abraham and his seed forever.)


	15. Ghosts

The storm arrived during dinner – or no, _arrived_ is a poor description. The storm _materialized._

There was no slow gathering of clouds, no rising wind, no telltale sprinkles of rain. One moment the sky was clear, the next it was dark. Then there was a resounding clap of thunder that made us all jump, and the heavens were riven. I was most grateful to be sitting around a candlelit table with a fire on the hearth.

“What a night,” said Maitimo uneasily. “The Formenos folk must know something we do not, for their predictions are never in error. Glad indeed am I that we took heed of their words. I would not fancy being caught in this.”

“The streets will be flooded soon at this rate,” said Tyelkormo. “I doubt anyone will be able to coax their horses through, and woe unto those on foot!”

"So you see, Fëanáro, it is as I told you,” said Atar. “There were no darker designs at work, merely the changeable northern weather.”

I nodded mutely, glancing at Nerdanel for confirmation. If anything evil was brewing, she, with her extensive network of military associates, would be the first to know. As it was, my wife looked quite at ease.

“Of course,” I replied. “I overreacted.”

Nerdanel threw me a sharp look, but said nothing.

The meal continued in companionable silence for a time, accompanied by rain and wind. Then quite suddenly, there was an exceptionally loud thunderclap, which caused Ambarto to jump and drop his knife with a clatter. I was reminded vividly of when the twins were children: thunderstorms had always frightened them. They would inevitably appear in my bedroom moments after a storm began, pleading to sleep beside me.

The Ambarussa glanced at each other, then Ambarto laughed sheepishly and ducked down to retrieve his silverware.

"Some of the Secondborn have a superstition,” said Nerdanel with an indulgent smile. “They say that if someone drops a knife during a meal, the house will have a male visitor.”

“Sounds like nonsense to me,” Curufinwë scoffed. He tossed his hair over his shoulder with the back of his hand, a gesture he inherited from me. I ought to have scolded him for his pretentiousness, but I found myself feeling too affectionate for that.

“You would be surprised how often it comes true,” said my wife, unfazed.

Atar straightened suddenly in his chair, eyeing me intently as he always did when he had something important to say. My heart lurched sickeningly. Had all his comforting words as to the storm’s mundanity been a disguise for something far worse?

“You should know that your brothers are coming,” he told me.

This rather ordinary revelation took me entirely aback. I had been expecting something far worse. I felt relief wash over me with such force that it robbed me of speech.

Atar set down his fork, tension lining his face. “I assume they did not tell you, Fëanáro,” he began. “To be fair, it was decided at rather the last minute. You see, when they learned that Ambassador Senindë intended to visit you in Formenos, Arafinwë insisted on meeting her here to act as a mediator. Nolofinwë wished to come also, for his own reasons. Perhaps he hopes to teach you some diplomacy. They ambassador was delayed, so she will avoid this storm, but I fear your brothers have been caught in the midst of it.”

So Nolofinwë was being insufferably noble, as always. No, I was not known for my diplomacy, but even I did not need Nolofinwë’s help to avoid insulting the Telerin ambassador. My own guilt would take care of that.

"Why didn’t they tell me?” I demanded. “They could have traveled with us until they reached their lodgings. I would not have objected.”

This statement garnered several surprised glances, and Maitimo looked as if he seriously thought I was having a fit, but I spoke truthfully. I was not yet prepared to share close quarters with my half-brothers for any length of time, but I would not have minded them riding with us. It might even have been an opportunity for reconciliation. I still had not truly apologized for leaving Arafinwë stranded in the dark with a crown he never wanted.

“As I said, the decision was made quite late,” said Atar. “I also believe that your brothers expected you to bar them from your meeting with Senindë if they asked to take part. Now I wish they had stayed in Tirion, or delayed just a day longer. They intended to stay with a friend of theirs, but he lives beyond the hunting lodge. They’ll never reach him if this weather keeps up.”

“I understand,” said Nerdanel gently. “I would feel the same if one of my sons was out in this storm, but Nólo and Aro are not children. They can look after themselves. If the streets flood, they’ll take shelter with the townspeople. The folk of Formenos have little love for your sons, but they don’t turn away travelers in distress.”

Atar did not look altogether reassured.

“I won’t be angry,” I promised. “Mildly irritated, perhaps, as there are no guestrooms in this house. Two of us may lose the luxury of sleeping alone tonight, but I won’t be angry. Now, they’ll both be soaked to the skin when they arrive. Macalaurë, you and Arafinwë have similar builds; be a gentleman and lend him something of yours. Nolofinwë and I are closest in size. Curvo, keep the candles lit and the fires burning. I left Nolofinwë in the cold once, and I shall not do it again.”

I did not realize I had spoken this last bit aloud until Atar murmured, “My, you have changed.”

I met his gaze. “Aye, and for the better, I hope.”

“Then you will allow one of your brothers to bunk with you.”

Oh, no, no, no. Absolutely not. My grace had a limit. 

“I have a wife, Atar,” I protested. “Surely you will not deprive us of each other’s company.”

“You aren’t going back to Mandos, Fëanáro!” Nerdanel burst out. “We won’t be more than a corridor away from each other, for goodness’ sake, and I’ve had far stranger bunkmates than your half-brothers. Have I told you I once shared a tent with an Easterling fire priestess who defected from Sauron’s armies? She insisted on blessing me with several kinds of incense every time I went into battle. I think it worked.”

It was all I could do to keep my mouth from falling open. I threw Nerdanel a glare that said plainly, _How could you betray me like this?_

She returned a smile. _‘Tis for your own good._

 _"_ Do this for me, Curufinwë,” said Atar. It was gentle, but it was a command.

Defeated, I dipped my head in deference to my father. “I will, Atar.”

I prepared myself to face the most awkward night of my life.

* * *

It was not long before there came a frantic knocking on the doors, audible even over the pounding rain. I swung my legs out from under the table and crossed the stretch of cold hallway leading to the doors, taking Maitimo with me to help push open the wooden monstrosities.

Arafinwë stood on the threshold, drenched from head to toe, his golden hair dyed brown by the rain. He was supporting an equally soaked Nolofinwë, whose pale hands were clutching the hood of his cloak tightly about his face. His lips were tinged blue, and he was shivering much harder than he should have been. He looked as though he might sooner have fallen through ice than been for a ride in the rain. I knew that extreme cold could produce such symptoms, but Formenos was hardly the Helcaraxë!

“Fëanáro, I’m sorry to trouble you, but we –” Arafinwë began.

“I know,” I cut in. “Well, Atar knew. Do come in.”

Arafinwë was plainly taken aback by my acquiescence, but he did not question it. He murmured something soothing to Nolofinwë and led him into the house, following behind me until we reached the dining room. There, Nolofinwë shook himself free of Arafinwë’s grip and collapsed before the hearth with a gasp of relief.

Nerdanel and Atar rose from their seats in startled concern. The Eldar were not so susceptible to cold. Something was quite wrong.

Faintly alarmed, I knelt beside Nolofinwë and gently turned his face to mine. His skin was the color of new-fallen snow, and there was pain in his eyes, and fear.

Nolofinwë looked at me as Thalieth had, as if recognizing me by my aura and not by my face. Then he took my hand in his cold ones and held it tightly to gather some warmth. His touch was icy. I had to fight the urge to recoil.

Disconcerted, I looked to Arafinwë for an explanation.

“This has happened before,” he said softly. “Nólo told me that some of the Eldar who crossed the Grinding Ice could never banish the chill from their bones, and they were left with a weakness to cold. Nólo is among them. He doesn’t know why this affliction followed him into rebirth, but it did. He must take great care to dress warmly when he travels. If he does not, or if the weather turns foul without warning, well…” He gestured helplessly at his brother, who was clutching my hand as if he would drown in cold if he let go. “The only thing for it is to keep him warm and pray that the chills stop.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “I can aid him in that. Leave him to me, Arafinwë. In the meantime, Macalaurë will lend you some of his dry clothes. Help yourself to some tea. The kettle is in the kitchen.”

Arafinwë seemed torn. He glanced longingly towards the warm glow of the kitchen. “Tea would be lovely… Are you certain you can manage Nólo?”

“Quite certain. I’ll soon see him warm.” As gently as I could, I extricated my hand from Nolofinwë’s vice-like grip. “Can you walk if I give you my arm?” I asked him.

He managed a nod. Clutching my arm, he brought himself shakily to his feet. He swayed dangerously in the throes of his shivers, and I had to throw my free arm around his shoulders.

“Lean on me.” I had unconsciously adopted the same soothing tone I used when my sons were children waking from nightmares.

Glancing over my shoulder, I caught Atar’s approving smile.

* * *

The fire in my bedchamber was lit and burning merrily. Silently, I commended Curufinwë for his efficiency. No doubt he was feeling a bit _too_ pleased with himself.

Nolofinwë released my arm and crumpled to the floor before the grate. His shivers so unbalanced him that he nearly pitched forward into the flames.

“Careful now,” I said. “Don’t fall in the fire.”

“I m-might be warm if I d-did,” he gasped through chattering teeth.

“Too warm, I daresay.”

When I was certain that Nolofinwë would not endanger himself, I went to the dresser and took out a warm woolen shirt and a pair of trousers and set them beside him, along with a blanket from the bed. “Come, get out of these wet things. I can leave you while you change.”

Nolofinwë shook his head fervently. There was terror in his eyes I had never seen there before, and it spoke plainly of what he was reliving. How frightened he must have been to see the fire of the burning ships on the horizon. How frightened they all must have been! He was trapped in those memories now, I realized. He could not stand to see me abandon him again.

I turned my back to allow him some privacy, and to hide this living mark of my guilt.

“The Helcaraxë is far behind you,” I said to the stone wall. “It can’t harm you now.”

At once, I regretted my words. Eru, I was the worst sort of hypocrite! Here I was telling Nolofinwë that the past was powerless, and yet I could not bring myself to reconcile with my father’s murder despite his rebirth.

Behind me, Nolofinwë was silent. When he had dressed himself, he sat down on the edge of the bed and began to smooth his damp, tangled hair. He attempted to braid it back, but his hands were shaking so badly that he did not get very far. Something in me rebelled at seeing him reduced to this. An Elda, much less a prince of the Noldor, should never be laid so low.

And I was largely to blame.

On an impulse, I sat down behind him. “Be still.”

There was no affection in my voice, but no hardness either. Before I could think twice, I began to braid his hair as I had when we were much younger – when he was an annoyance rather than a threat. When I still felt protectiveness, even care.

Nolofinwë tensed as though expecting some cruel harm. I could not blame him. I had hurt him so many times through the years, intentionally and not. Yet very slowly, very carefully, he allowed himself to relax. His rigid shoulders sank back to their natural level, and I felt him release a long-held breath.

“You’re being kind,” he said hoarsely. He sounded vaguely disbelieving.

“It has been known to happen.”

“Not to me. Not often, at least.”

Whether or not he was trying to shame me, the effect was the same.

“I assure you, my motives are entirely selfish,” I went on. “I owe you a debt for watching over me the night I was poisoned, and as it’s my fault that you’re in this state… Well, I would like to ease my conscience.”

“Partly your fault,” Nolofinwë muttered. “I could have turned back, but I did not.”

“I daresay the Teleri would have shown you as little mercy as the Ice.”

“They might at least have slain us swiftly.”

“Then I left you with death before and death behind.”

Neither of us knew how to fill the heavy silence that followed. For some time, we sat side by side, each grappling with guilt.

At last, Nolofinwë found his voice. “Neither of us knows what would have happened if I had turned back, or if you had made the crossing with us, or if you had sent back the ships as you promised.”

 _As you promised_. He had always set his heart on honor duty. He expected too much, especially in those dark days when all the codes of honorable combat were shattered beneath Moringotto’s mace. I knew I was not alone in feeling that if the Eldar were to triumph over such a ruthless foe, we could no longer honor the rules of engagement that stayed our hands at first blood in good-natured arena duels. We had to be brutal.

Even then, unstable as I was, I knew my father would never have agreed to that line of thinking. Atar, who had fought orcs and other foul things in Cuiviénen, would have found a way to balance efficiency with honor. He would not have cast morality aside so lightly, and Nolofinwë knew it, too. Even then, he wanted me to keep my promises and rule with justice. I hated him for it. I hated him for expecting me to be perfect and selfless, after all I had lost.

Oh, he had suffered, too. He grieved for Atar just as I did, and he was left to hold together a frightened, fractured people on the edge of madness. But at least he had his mother. I had no one to guide me. I was an orphan, the first in all Aman. My mother’s death touched me with grief, first of all my folk, and my father’s murder closed the circle.

“You’ve always been far too trusting,” I said, dragging myself from my memories. “You ought to have known, when I promised you the ships, that I cared for none of you.”

 _I scarcely cared about my sons in the end_ , came a heart-wrenching thought. _I should have released them from their Oath as I lay dying, but all I could think of was vengeance. All I could do was damn them to a legacy of ruin._

Regret came much too late. In the Void, even repentance as sincere as mine is powerless.

“Are you well, Fëanáro?” Nolofinwë’s voice, calm and concerned, startled me from my thoughts.

“What?”

“Of a sudden, you’re absolutely white.”

“It’s only… To think that I could ever…”

I almost told him then. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him what I had been thinking and how it made me feel. He might have understood, he who ran to his death in the name of vengeance just as I did. His last thoughts, like mine, were of retribution.

But no, he did not challenge Moringotto for vengeance’s sake. He did it to break the siege he’d held for years, so that no more of his people might lose their lives. As always, his nobility shone through. He had a higher purpose in mind when he rode to Moringotto’s gates.

Eru, would nothing ever tarnish the perfect martyrdom he had built for himself? Would I always stand in his shadow, he the saint and I the sinner?

Desperately, I began, “What were you thinking when you –” Then my words ran up against a wall of pride, and my voice died in my throat.

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” I sighed. “Put it from your mind.”

“Have you something to ask me?”

I forced myself to don the mask of the politician I wore in court to keep my opponents from seeing how much they stung me.

“Will you be amenable to bunking with me tonight?” I asked. “There are no guestrooms in this house, and Atar has decreed that we shall share a room. No doubt he has some plan of his own.”

“He always does.” Nolofinwë matched my false smile.

Neither of us could truly hide how much the conversation had disturbed us.

* * *

I fell asleep that night grumbling at Nolofinwë to stop shivering so hard and to keep his feet on his side of the bed. I awoke screaming.

I had seen Atar brutally slain again and again. And I had stood aside, never stirring so much as an eyelid.

Nolofinwë was sitting bolt upright beside me, hurtled from sleep by my anguished screams. His hands twitched as though he wanted to put them on my shoulders.

“Fëanáro, hush!” he almost pleaded. “What frightens you so?”

“Atar!” I gasped. The pain in my heart had become a physical thing, stealing my breath.

“What of him?” Nolofinwë demanded desperately.

“His death, Nólo! I never knew the details of his death, but sure as the Void, I know them now! I thought I was hiding from something. I only wish it had stayed hidden!”

“But when your sons rode to the Máhanaxar, surely they told you –”

“They said only that they heard the sounds of a battle. They didn't reach the house in time to see anything else!”

“You were never told? Not in Mandos, not even in the Void?”

“No, not even in the Void!”

I buried my head in my hands, shoulders heaving as I gasped for breath. It was too much, all too much. It was more than enough to know that I forfeited Atar’s life when I shut my doors in Moringotto’s face, for surely that insult was what brought him back to Formenos in such a fury. I had yet to come to terms with that alone.

It was more than I could bear to see the Dark Lord coil the chain of Grond around Atar’s legs and send him hurtling across the courtyard like a rag doll. To see Moringotto’s sword drive breath and blood from his body again and again. To see lightning flash down and twist the sword I had crafted for him into a heap of molten metal. To see him drag himself up each time he was smitten to the ground. To see agony etch itself deeper into his face with every moment of that struggle.

What sort of blacksmith could not make a sword to save his father’s life?

And what sort of son is leagues away when his father needs him most?

I should have thrown Manwë’s summons into the fire the moment I sensed something was wrong and ridden back to Formenos like Ancalagon himself was on my heels. I should have thrown myself in front of Atar.

I should have died.

“I thought you would have heard by now,” said Nolofinwë hesitantly. “I wanted to know – well, perhaps not, but I _had_ to know. Often, the worst is more endurable than not knowing at all, and so when I was in Mandos, I asked Lord Námo to show me what happened that night. Once the horror had passed, it led me to reconciliation. I thought you would have done the same.”

No, of course I had not. I locked the Darkening away in the deepest vaults of my memory. When I wrote about that night in my memoirs, I wrote only of what I had seen for myself, which was terrible enough. I never considered that it might have been a thousand times worse. I denied that Atar’s death was a torturous one: in my mind, he was slain in one swift blow. And I held to that conviction long after I discovered that death is never so easy, for I could not accept the alternative.

“I couldn’t bear it,” I forced out through clenched teeth. “You know me, Nolofinwë. I can never face what hurts me: I let it consume me or I lock it away.”

“But you must face it,” said Nolofinwë softly. “It’s the only way. You’ll go mad otherwise.”

In a fury of grief, I sat up and raked my hands through my hair.

“How can I face it, Nolofinwë?” I cried. My voice was raw with anguish. “I love Atar more than life, and he died because of my recklessness and pride!”

“Atar’s death wasn’t your fault! You weren’t even in Formenos!”

“That’s just it, you trusting fool! You’re too quick to assume the best of me, Nolofinwë. Had I never drawn steel upon you, there would have been no exile, no summons to Taniquetil, no fortress for Atar to die defending! It’s my fault he was slain, he who deserved life a thousand times more than I! So blame me for his death! Blame me for the Darkening, blame me for the Helcaraxë, blame me for the fall of the Noldor, and blame me for the Marring of Arda if you like! Surely that’s my fault too!”

My voice broke. Having finally voiced the guilt I had been feeling since our arrival in Formenos, I felt thoroughly sick. I had shattered all the walls of denial I had ever built and made true what I never wanted to accept. Shivers ran through me and cold sweat sheened my skin. Suddenly, I was quite as chilled as Nolofinwë had been earlier that night.

“No one blames you for the Marring of Arda,” my half-brother murmured.

“They do!” I protested, my voice rising hysterically. “You heard Turindo, and he isn’t alone! They think I should never have been born!”

“Fëanáro, you are overwrought. You’ll make yourself ill.”

“Tell me they're wrong! Deny it, I beg you to deny it!”

“Of course they are wrong!”

“But you don’t know, do you? No one does!”

“You asked me to deny these vicious things, and I have done so. I deny them wholeheartedly. You must renounce them yourself now.”

He had not, I noticed, challenged my claim that Atar died because of me. That could only mean one thing: he agreed with it.

My crushing guilt must have shown in my face. Nolofinwë covered my hands with his much warmer ones and tried to look reassuring.

“It was only a dream,” he said. “Atar is alive and well.”

With those words, a horrifying new thought struck me, bringing bile to the back of my throat. “You don’t think it means anything, do you? What if it’s a warning?”

Nolofinwë looked troubled for a fraction of a second, but then his countenance cleared. “If it were a warning, you would have dreamt of the future, not of the past. I believe Moringotto will return, but I don’t believe he will take Atar from us twice.” He turned my hand over, pressed two fingers to my wrist. “Your skin is like ice and your heart is racing. Let me get you some of the spiced wine Nerdanel left on the coals downstairs. It might calm you.”

The thought of being left alone in the dark terrified me. As Nolofinwë made to rise, my hand shot out and caught his arm.

“No!” I cried hoarsely. “I…I don’t want to be by myself.”

I heard him wince as my fingernails bit into his arm. “Come with me, then.”

I wanted to walk through the darkened house as little as I wanted to be alone, but the walk was the lesser of the two evils. I stood, wrapping my arms tightly about myself, and followed Nolofinwë downstairs.

* * *

I saw ghosts all the way to the kitchen. They were nameless and faceless, but they all seemed to implicate my guilt in the events of the Darkening. I knew they were nothing more than the shadows of the furniture twisted into menacing shapes by the glow of the lampstones on the walls, but they still frightened me. By the time we reached the kitchen, I was so badly shaken that I nearly scalded my throat on my first drink of spiced wine.

Nolofinwë wrested the mug from me to keep me from doing further harm. At my plea, and a promise that I would not try to drink until it was cooled, he returned it to me, and I warmed my shaking hands on the ceramic. 

“You take things too much to heart,” Nolofinwë said after a long and weighty silence. “For all your faults, it could never be said that you take no responsibility for your actions. If anything, you take too much. Yes, Atar might have been spared if he hadn’t followed you into exile, but who’s to say the Dark Lord would not have slain him in Tirion? Only Eru knows the truth.”

I took a long drink of wine. It had not yet cooled completely, but I welcomed the burning. It sent a shock through me that brought me back to reality and banished the unnatural cold.

“The fact remains, Nolofinwë, that Moringotto came to Formenos looking for _me_. I humiliated him before my doors, and he meant to kill me. But I was not there. I was not there because, for once in my life, I did my duty and went to Taniquetil to reconcile with you. Neither Atar nor I would have been where we were that night had I kept my sword in its sheath.”

“Fëanáro, your rebirth will mean nothing if you spend it tormenting yourself for things you cannot change. I believe Eru meant you to learn from your mistakes so that you don’t make them again. Lay the past to rest. The past is what it is, but the future is yours to change, yours to shape. You have so many gifts, Fëanáro. Your future could be so bright if only you allow it. Atar is alive. If you believe you caused his death, then learn what lessons you can and carry on a wiser man. Let all the rest go.”

I was in no state to be convinced by his logic, and he knew it.

He sighed heavily. “Do you resent your sons for not bringing you back to camp when Gothmog wounded you?”

“That wasn’t their fault! I’m the one who charged into a demon horde –”

“There was still time when they found you – not much time, but enough that you might have been saved by a skilled healer. Maitimo has told me so. Do you hate them for not acting more swiftly?”

My head fell forward, my hair curtaining my face. “It was better that I died.”

Nolofinwë scoffed. “Stop that. Answer the question.”

I knew what he wanted me to say, and I wanted to say it, too. It would be ridiculous for me to hate my sons for not bringing me to a healer now that all the torments of my death were behind me.

“Of course I don’t blame them. That would be useless,” I said wearily.

“Well, Atar feels the same way. He bears you no ill will, just as he doesn’t blame your sons for being away when Formenos was attacked.”

“Only because he cares too much. It blinds him to the truth.”

“If he truly blamed you, a death as violent as his would have shattered that care.”

Goodness, Nolofinwë had grown stronger. In the past, he would have wearied of my endless rebuttals and walked away, spent. Now he was standing his ground, every bit as indefatigable as I was, refuting everything I said without hesitation. He was exhausting _me_ now, driving me to a concession. And he was using all these skills to _defend_ me. That was the strangest thing of all.

I drained the rest of my wine and laid my head on my arms.

“Nólo, you will never convince me,” I muttered.

“You always know, don’t you?” said Nolofinwë. I was startled at the hardness of his voice. “You’re always so sure, so sure that you are utterly alone in your guilt, so sure that your brand of suffering is worse than everyone else’s! Do you think that I never feel – Well, no matter. You are wrong, Curufinwë, wrong on every count. You might be a good deal happier if you did not lock yourself away in your own mind!”

“Don’t you dare use my _ataressë_ , Nolofinwë!” I sat bolt upright, all weariness forgotten. “Don’t you dare speak to me as if you are my father!”

My half-brother remained unshaken. “I meant no offense,” he said calmly. “It’s only that you are infuriatingly stubborn and you never seem to know what’s good for you.”

He sighed through clenched teeth and ran a hand through his hair.

“Come. It’s late, and we’re both far too tired for this. We ought to get back to bed. Perhaps things will seem clearer in the morning.”

“I can’t sleep. If I sleep, I’ll dream, and I know what I will see.”

Nolofinwë shook his head. “You always know.”

He was right, of course. He always was. Defeated, I rose from my seat and followed him back upstairs.

Had I been less thoroughly exhausted, I might have felt Nolofinwë’s hand come to rest on my shoulder just before I fell asleep. I might also have seen Atar open the door just a crack. He closed it softly again with a smile when he saw his sons resting peacefully side by side, the faith of the younger soothing the torment of the elder. 


	16. Rebuilding

The rain persisted for three days, and it was two more before the weak northern sun made the roads passable again. The fields remained treacherous. I heard more than one story of unfortunate souls who got stuck in the mud and had to be pulled out by friends. Still, spirits were as high as ever. Soldiers sparred in the courtyards, children splashed in the puddles, and the blacksmiths’ fires burned on. The brass choir – for which, I learned, Formenos was now famous – heralded each dawn and each dusk with the music of their horns. I was told that I slept right through reveille the morning after that first tormented night, though I seriously doubted it. At full strength, they achieved a volume fit to wake the dead, and according to Nerdanel, many an enemy had cowered before their fanfares.

I learned also that Formenos had a patriotic hymn, though I had yet to hear it. Only a city of Fëanárian loyalists would be arrogant enough to devise its own anthem.

Living in close quarters with Nolofinwë for five days should have damaged our shaky truce, but the truth was quite the opposite. By slow degrees we became more comfortable with each other, bridging bit by bit the great divide between us. Indeed, it was Nolofinwë’s advice I sought when a messenger falcon arrived bearing word that Ambassador Senindë was but a day away from the city. Nolofinwë was the diplomat, not I.

“Conduct yourself with humility,” my half-brother told me. “Accept responsibility for your crimes, but take care not to be overemotional: that can easily be seen as a mark of insincerity. Do not defend yourself unless she asks it of you. We’ve been reconciled with Alqualondë for ages, so you won’t have to make any sort of truce, but do take this seriously. Don’t give Her Excellency any reason to think you unrepentant.”

“That’s unlikely,” I said heavily. “On the contrary, I shall be lucky if I can look her in the eyes. I hardly had a chance to speak to her at the feast in Tirion, much less tell her how dearly I wish that the First Kinslaying never happened at all. Or to thank her for saving my life.”

“Then be sure to tell her when you meet with her,” said Nolofinwë. “She bears you no ill will, but offering her your formal regrets may do worlds of good for your reputation. If you had seen how much things improved when Maitimo knelt and surrendered the kingship to me in payment for your treachery, you would know I speak the truth.”

That incident still rankled somewhere deep within me, pricking at my pride. I knew that Maitimo had done a wise thing, of course, yet the thought of my eldest son kneeling to my half-brother made me uneasy.

It was also at that time that I drew Arafinwë into my study for a long overdue conversation.

“I…left you with rather a mess after the Darkening, did I not?” I began.

Arafinwë smiled, but something hard and poisonous came alive in his eyes. “Someone had to go to war,” he said coolly, “and you and Nólo were the best ones to do it. I can fight well enough, but I’m not meant for battle. I was better off in Tirion.”

“You never wanted a crown, Aro. It can’t have been easy for you to return home and rule, not with Alqualondë in tatters and your children damned and your father dead and your people starving in the dark.” These phrases were meant to prick my own conscience, but I could see they hurt Arafinwë as well.

He shifted uncomfortably, tucking a loose strand of golden hair behind his ear.

“Come now, you can’t tell me you don’t resent me,” I pressed.

“Well, I did at one time, and I suppose part of me still does. At first, all I wanted to do was weep. I denied myself tears for so long after Atar died, because Nólo was grieving and you were… Well, you were so far beyond grief that I doubt there is a word for it.”

“I know of several, and so do you.”

“I’m not going to call you the mad king. It’s been said enough.”

“And so it should be.”

“But it changes nothing. Now, listen. After Atar’s death, I knew I had to be strong for you and Nólo, because no one else was going to be. I denied myself tears until I returned from Alqualondë, and by then, I believed I understood why you closed your mind to reason, Fëanáro. Thinking was entirely too painful. Eärwen will tell you that I nearly faded. I came home and fell asleep, and for a week I remained asleep.”

My eyes flickered down in shame. I had fought the same soul-battle in Mandos, and it was not one I wanted for anyone else, least of all gentle Arafinwë.

“You stayed, though. Why?” I asked.

“I didn’t think Atar would approve if I abandoned his people in their darkest hour. I had professed to love them on countless occasions, and what sort of king would take back those words when the road darkens? Besides, I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of proving myself the failure you always said I was.”

“Aro…” I wanted so badly to say that I never meant those things, but I _had_ meant them at one time. “…I could never say that of you now.”

Arafinwë smiled faintly. “Well, whatever the reason, I came back to the world and took up Atar’s crown. We had to find a source of light, or else the lords in their manors would starve just the same as the peasants in the fields. I suppose that was when I truly hated you. You tasted war at Alqualondë and you heard the Doom; how could you go on?”

“To tell the truth, Aro, I didn’t care about the cost. Only vengeance could have kept me from being consumed…at least, I thought so.”

Arafinwë nodded slowly, his eyes gone hard and cold. “I see.”

“You must believe I have repented of that a thousand times over.”

“I know you have. You owe the people that much.”

“That much and more.”

Arafinwë’s eyes narrowed for a moment, as though he did not know whether to believe the words he heard me speak. It must have been strange to see me so penitent, when his last memory of me was my defiance of the Doom.

He seemed to conclude I was being truthful and went on.

“Well, that was why I hated you: for leaving the people and for leaving me. Do you know what a blessing you could have been to us in our search for a new light source? Nerdanel offered us her skills, of course, as did many of the Aulenduri, but they didn’t know light like you knew light, Fëanáro. No one did.”

“How do you know that, unstable as I was, I would have been of any use to you?”

“You hated the darkness more than anyone.”

Startled, my head snapped up. “What?”

“I saw you return from your expeditions to the borders of Avathar. Your eyes were always haunted and full of loathing. That was why you created the Silmarilli, wasn’t it – to preserve the Treelight forever. You knew better than anyone in Aman that nothing lasts forever, even here. I didn’t expect you to give up your jewels to save the Trees, but I think you would have helped us devise something else.”

So he knew me better than I thought. He was more intelligent than I thought, too. Perhaps I had underestimated my youngest brother. There was more to my refusal to break the Silmarilli than he implied, but I did not correct him. Thinking about that brought up uneasy memories of Nolofinwë’s insinuation that the Silmarilli had something to do with the end of the world.

Arafinwë smiled gently. “I am a careful observer, Fëanáro,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “and you aren’t known for hiding your feelings.

“Anyway, where was I…? As you can imagine, things became a good deal easier once we had light again. Crops were resown, game returned to the forests, the weather improved. But in the interval, Fëanáro… Well, you know what it was like after the Darkening. I reigned until Írimë took over late in the Second Age – Nolofinwë had been reborn, but he wasn’t ready for kingship yet – and that was more than enough for me. Still, I’m grateful for it. It made me strong. You see, until I was forced to be brave, I was indeed as soft-hearted and frail as you said. In some ironic way, I suppose I owe you thanks.”

I scoffed incredulously. I could scarcely believe what I had heard, though Nolofinwë and Nerdanel had told me similar things. “Are you certain of that, Arafinwë?”

My half-brother’s fair face hardened. “It was my children’s choice to fight, but I don’t thank you for starting the rebellion that killed them.”

I was almost relieved to hear him say that. His unconditional forgiveness, had he offered it, would have done me more harm than good.

I bowed my head. “Of course not. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

“But I expect it of myself. It’s been a very long time, and many things have been set right.”

I did not attempt a rebuttal, allowing myself the wonderful luxury of absolution.

“However you feel about it, Arafinwë, I am so very sorry,” I said softly. “Not that you found your courage, but that you suffered so along the way.”

Arafinwë laid a hand over his heart in acceptance. “That means a great deal.” He paused, peering intently into my eyes. “You would never have said such a thing in your past life. How horrible the Void must have been to change you so!”

I suppressed a shiver. “Since you stated correctly that I hate the darkness,” I said carefully, trying not to think too much, “you should be able to guess.”

Arafinwë’s face went pale and his eyes closed. When he opened them again, it was as though he was looking upon the light with new gratitude.

He turned his gaze from me. “However did you survive?”

“I hardly had a choice.” I could feel the cold dread beginning to creep through my limbs, trying to settle in my chest. “You’ll understand that I don’t wish to discuss it.”

Color suffused Arafinwë’s cheeks. “Of course.”

There was a pause in which he grappled with his embarrassment, and then his face brightened.

“All the more reason, then, for there to be peace between the sons of Finwë. Our torments are ended, we’ve learned and grown, and our healing is on its way. We ought to carry on as allies.”

I took his wrist in my hand, completing his soldier’s grip. “We ought to indeed.”

“I must warn you, it won’t be easy. There are factions, small but outspoken, who don’t think we should reconcile. You know what happened with Turindo – the Nolofinwëan ironclads are as bad as the Fëanárian ones.”

“Ironclads, Arafinwë?”

“Particularly fervent loyalists. Extremists, some would say. The Noldor have an understandable aversion to oaths, but the ironclads still require vows of fealty. They all use swords to seal their vows. That’s where the name ‘ironclad’ comes from, and from their loyalty.”

“So there are many Fëanárian ironclads here, I expect.”

“Oh, yes. The Formenos folk would not allow anyone who did not support you through their gates.”

“I’m not certain how I feel about oath-taking being part of politics.”

“It always was, in some ways, but it’s more serious now. The Noldorin court has not changed so very much, Fëanáro. Yes, the people elect a parliament to assist the monarch nowadays, but politics is still the same.”

I was struck by a terrible thought. “Do you think there might be a revolution among these ironclads?”

“I doubt it will come to that. Don’t you trust the people?”

“The ones who don’t try to poison me.”

* * *

Neither of us had wanted to discuss the Darkening, but now that we had, much of the tension between us had lifted. I had always gotten along better with Arafinwë than Nolofinwë, but now I had a new respect for him. Now if only the meeting with Ambassador Senindë would go as well…

Macalaurë had always been able to soothe me with music, so I chose to visit him in his instrument room. I thought at first that he might be irritated at my intrusion, for I understood the artistic temperament, but on the contrary, he was delighted. I had not taken such an interest in his music since he was young, when I fashioned harps and flutes of wood for him. He beckoned me to sit at his concert harp and play with him.

“Nothing eases the spirit like a song or two,” Macalaurë told me gently, reminding me strikingly of my father. “Come, I’ll start and you join in.”

I knew the theory of improvisation, and I could compose simple pieces if I had the time and the inspiration, but Macalaurë surpassed me in every respect. It was one thing to play simple duets with him when he was a child still learning his art, but now that his genius was full-flowered, I was in no hurry to humiliate myself.

“Káno, I am no true musician,” I said awkwardly, trying to slip away.

He took my wrist and pulled me gently back down into my seat. “My musical talents came from somewhere, Atar.”

I could not help but laugh. “From me? Do you know how ridiculous that is?”

“You learned three instruments as a boy, didn’t you? And you can sing.”

“Well enough, but not like you.”

“Perhaps music didn’t come as easily to you as language and lore, so you gave it up as a waste of time.” 

He was right. Growing up, it was rare that I came across a skill I could not easily master. Music was among them. As an elven prince, I was expected to study the harp and the flute, and I also pursued the trumpet out of love for its brazen sound, but I was never brilliant. I decided music wasn’t worth the effort. It was impermanent, after all, and I feared impermanence. My opinions changed vastly the first time I felt the lasting, healing power of Macalaurë’s voice, but I never studied music again.

Macalaurë took my hands and placed them gently on the harp strings.

“Try again.”

He set his own hands to the harp and began to play. It was a stately waltz that every highborn Noldo learned as a child, and one of the few I enjoyed dancing.

“You join in when you feel ready, Atar.”

“Perhaps you ought to let me play the melody…”

He did not even glance at his fingers as he spoke to me, but the music remained flawlessly unbroken. “That would be too easy. You ornament your metalwork, don’t you? Well, this is just the same. You know the theory: let your heart do the rest. Come, make this shine.”

This was a challenge. Though I suspected that entering into a musical duel with Macalaurë was as suicidal as charging into a horde of Valaraukar, I was not one to back down. Calling to mind the scrollwork with which I adorned my metalcraft, I set my hands on the strings above Macalaurë’s and attempted to translate those ornaments into music. The result was an array of flowing, liquid notes, now accenting the chord changes, now weaving into the melody itself. I could not help but smile at the sparkling effect.

I relaxed, and Macalaurë undoubtedly felt my confidence grow. He began to deviate from the melody, embellishing it with flourishes of his own. This unsettled me. At one time my hands collided with his, but he played on undeterred, calling for me not to stop.

The piece held together for so long that I began to think I might have some musical talent after all. By the end, our hands were flying up and down the strings in patterns that were at once melody and ornament. I paused for a moment to allow Macalaurë a wondrous cadenza. As he finished, I ran my hand up the strings, a glittering glissando into the final three chords.

Silence fell. Neither of us could keep from grinning.

"I told you so,” said Macalaurë gently. “You feel it in your heart. You may not know it, but I do. Now sing for me. You will remember this piece.”

At the sound of the dark, solemn chords, I felt something like a kick in the stomach. The simple melody, the monotonous, frozen cadence… Oh, I knew it. How could I ever forget it?

It was my father’s funeral song.

My throat tightened as I recalled his body on the pyre and the people placing stone after stone in the courtyard where he was slain, a cairn to honor the guardian of Formenos. My first instinct was to turn and flee, but I remembered what Nolofinwë told me a few nights ago. I had to face the Darkening and lay it to rest. I could not spend the rest of my life grieving for someone who was no longer dead.

I swallowed hard and applied my voice to the song. I knew the words: they were forever seared into my memory. Detachedly, I found myself thinking that the range suited my low voice. It might have been beautiful were my throat not choked with tears.

There was a solemn trumpet salute at the end, I knew: a final send-off for my father. It was terribly mournful, and I suspected that under Macalaurë’s skilled fingers it would be even worse. Thankfully, he did not attempt to play it, but rounded off on one dark chord. For this I was exceedingly grateful. I could not have borne it.

Macalaurë took a reverent pause. Then he looked up at me with a satisfied nod. 

“You really must sing more often,” he said. “Your low register is rich, and while I wouldn’t call you a tenor, I suspect you hold yourself back on your high end. You may have a larger range than you think. I would love to hear how you sound on the new aria I’ve been –”

“Káno, why?” I said hoarsely.

Macalaurë blinked, startled from his thoughts. “What?”

“Why would you choose that song, knowing what it…what it means?”

Instantly he seemed to come back to himself, back from that place where music was all that existed.

He took my hands apologetically. “Atar, I’m sorry. I got a bit carried away, didn’t I? I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to hear how you sound on that particular song because in a month or so it will be… Well, there’s a chance you’ll be expected to sing it for… Never mind. Don’t trouble yourself just yet.”

I narrowed my eyes, burning grief cooling to suspicion.

“Káno, you ought to know that if you tell me not to trouble myself, I will do just the opposite.”

“Well, try not to. You came here to enjoy yourself. Don’t spoil it.”

“If I ought to prepare for something difficult, I wish to know. Will it not do me more harm to keep me in the dark?”

“Not in this case,” said Macalaurë softly. I meant to press him further, but his eyes were closed again, and his hands were plying the harp strings in a new melody. He was already back in that place where only music could touch him.

With a sigh, I left the room and shut the door behind me. My secondborn and I were far more alike than I once thought.


	17. Generations

Disturbed by Macalaurë’s insinuations and still anxious about Senindë’s arrival, I sought solace in the blacksmith’s guild.

The room leading to the forges was dark and warm, illuminated only by the dim blue glow of a few Fëanárian lamps standing in the corners. I was greeted with sincerest reverence by the clerk at the desk, who was, in fact, Andion the sentry. I offered to replace the lampstones with some of my own making, as it was painfully obvious that the guild’s were poor imitations. However, Andion declined me with a polite bow.

“If these lampstones were for light, Highness, I would certainly prefer your own,” said she, “but as it is…” She leaned over the desk conspiratorially and beckoned me closer. “This room is very well-defended. Everything in it can be used as a weapon. My lamps are no exception.” She crossed the room and lifted one of the wrought-iron lampstands from its base, tilting it so that I could see the bottom. It was tipped with a glittering silver spearhead.

“The point is an alloy of Prince Curufinwë’s devising,” Andion explained with a proud grin. She hefted the lampstand like a javelin. “It’s too heavy to throw, but the spearhead will do some damage. And if that fails, one could always…” She took the lampstand in both hands and swung it experimentally, the lantern swaying wildly from the end. I was forced to leap back a pace. “…use it as a mace. The glass is your son’s as well, and not likely to break. Yes, this is among the best-defended places in Formenos. After all, we can’t have Morgoth raiding our armory and discovering all the secrets of Noldorin smithcraft.”

“Absolutely not!” I said, and clapped Andion on the shoulder. Nerdanel had not been exaggerating when she said Formenos was thoroughly prepared for an attack! “I applaud your creativity, captain. If you fight as well as you design weapons, no one will get past you.”

To my surprise, a blush suffused Andion’s cheeks. “Well, I… Thank you very much, m’lord,” she said rather breathlessly. She set the lampstand back in its base and regained her composure. “Is there anything I may do for you, or did you want to look around?” 

“I would like very much to visit the forges, yes," I said. I glanced at the shelves behind Andion’s desk, wondering if they were full of carefully concealed daggers.

“You’re welcome to it, prince,” said the sentry. “There are a few people at work who will be delighted to see you. If you would follow me through here…”

She pulled open the door beside her desk, letting in a rush of hot air. I thanked Andion for her time, returned her cheerful salute, and stepped through.

The workshops beyond would have overwhelmed anyone not thoroughly accustomed to the heat. As for me, I welcomed the hot, dry air, the deep red glow of the furnaces, the acrid smell, the rhythmic ring of hammer on steel. I felt at one with them all. These were my roots: I was back exactly where I belonged. I drew the heat and the burning smells deep into my lungs and exhaled a contented sigh, refreshed beyond words.

I walked deeper into the forge, trying not to startle nervous young apprentices at their work, giving bits of advice and compliments to the few souls brave enough to ask. Formenos was famous for its craftspeople, and from what I saw, the reputation was well-deserved.

The workshop furthest from the door was still and quiet. There were no reassuring hammerfalls or hisses of metal meeting cold water. The furnace was lit, but it had burned low, as though the bellows had been neglected.

Voices could be distinguished as I stepped cautiously into the room. Their tones were strained and bitter.

“You rejected me in Nargothrond. Don’t deny it. You rejected me and let me know your hate.”

“I never hated you. I hated what you stood for.”

“Then you did indeed hate me. The Oath was a part of my soul.”

“But it wasn’t _all_ of your soul, at least not until the end. I hated that vow. It made you do horrible things. It took my father from me and turned him into something I could no longer recognize, just as you said it did to Haru. What I rejected in Nargothrond was the Oath and what it made you. My father, Curufinwë Atarinkë as I knew him, never lost my love.”

I froze where I stood, stunned. A short way across the room, Curufinwë was chest-to-chest with Tyelperinquar, his son and my only grandchild. Though he had been a small boy when last I saw him, he was fully mature now, and there was no mistaking him. His face, even through the streaks of soot, undeniably resembled both his father’s and my own. We all had the same high cheekbones, the same fine features. His voice was a blend of Curufinwë’s and Macalaurë’s, pride and beauty entwined. Roughly clad though he was in a leather smith’s apron and soot-stained tunic, he maintained the regal bearing of the descendants of Finwë.

Tyelperinquar’s hands were clasped around his father’s wrists, and both were breathing harshly. Curufinwë looked as though he would very much like to turn and flee. I had never seen my fifth-born look so utterly miserable. He was not prone to displays of emotion as I was.

I was uncertain what to do. As much as I wanted to intervene, I knew Curufinwë had to make his peace with his son on his own. Still, something in me rebelled at the sorrow in both their faces.

I decided to keep silent until the conflict died down, for I very much wished to speak to my grandson. I had scarcely gotten to know him before Gothmog ended my life.

When next Tyelperinquar spoke, his voice was softer but no less firm.

“Did you come here to denounce yourself to me, Atar?” he asked. “Well, don’t. I’m wiser than I once was, and I understand why you did what you did. I don’t like it, but I understand it, and I’ve forgiven you. I should rightly hate Haru for making the oath that destroyed you.”

I felt as though I had been stabbed in the gut. Tyelperinquar was right, of course, but that didn’t make it easier. That Oath, that thrice-damned Oath had ruined everything! My war alone would have cost enough lives, but the Oath made it a thousand times worse. It ensured that my people would fall and die in ignominy, and in great numbers. If I had only been able to keep my grief in check!

Sick at heart, I felt my knees go weak. My feet scuffed the rough floor as I struggled to stay upright.

I heard Curufinwë speak again in a low, hoarse voice. “You were very young when the king was slain and the light was lost. You don’t understand what it did to your grandfather…what it did to us all. He loved Finwë more than any son has ever loved a father. In the end, that was what…”

Curufinwë’s voice nearly broke. I so wanted to comfort him, but I dared not intrude.

My fifth-born cleared his throat and went on.

“Remember also that he did not force me to swear his Oath. I swore for myself.”

It was only partially true. I did not force my sons to take my damning vow, no, but I would certainly have felt myself betrayed if they had not sworn.

“I beg you, come to know him before you cast your judgment,” Curufinwë went on.

“I didn’t say I hate him,” Tyelperinquar, “only that it _seems_ I should. I don’t know him well enough to say how I feel just yet. Hatred should not be lightly bestowed.”

“He so wants to be forgiven,” said Curufinwë, with a note of pleading in his voice. “You can’t imagine the punishment he –”

My foot slipped, skidding across the floor. By the time I caught myself, I had made more than enough noise to alert my son and grandson to my presence. Their heads snapped toward me, and all I could do was raise my hand in an awkward greeting.

“Atar,” said Curufinwë carefully. “How long have you been listening?”

“Long enough.” I cast a sidelong glance at Tyelperinquar. His keen silver eyes were roving over me as though trying to decide whether I really was a mad kinslayer. “Had I known you were here, I would have let you be. As it was, I…I merely came to visit the forges, and…”

“No matter, Atar,” said Curufinwë. He was fast regaining his orator’s composure. “You figured in our discussion, so I suppose you have a right to hear. Besides, I should like you and Tyelperinquar to be…reintroduced.”

He gave his son a small, firm shove.

I clasped Tyelperinquar’s forearm in the universal greeting of allies. His hands were rough and calloused with hard work, just like mine. His eyes were bright and intelligent, but in them I saw the lingering sorrow of a man who has seen kingdoms fall to ash because of his works. I knew that sorrow all too well. Suddenly, I felt a rush of kinship for him that transcended our shared blood.

Tyelperinquar held my gaze steadily for a long moment. Then, to my great reassurance, he smiled.

“It may comfort you to know,” he said gently, “that my clearest memory of you is a good one. It was after the Darkening. When I was frightened by the loss of the light, you took me in your arms and turned my face to the stars and told me that light is the mother of shadow. Without light, shadow cannot exist, therefore light will always triumph. I never forgot that, you know. I believe I said it to Annat – to the Deceiver – in the hour of my death.”

I recalled those words. They came in a last moment of clarity. Soon afterwards, my father’s funeral was held and grief drove away my reason. I did not know how to thank Tyelperinquar for remembering me kindly.

The memory of pain darkened Tyelperinquar’s face as a cloud passing over the sun, but it was gone in a moment. He shook his head, smiling. “Your emotions are strong, aren’t they? I can feel the gratitude in you, and the guilt and the sorrow mingled with joy. It’s said that even those who bore you little love were touched when you delivered King Finwë’s eulogy. Now I see why.”

“It’s always been that way,” said Curufinwë affectionately. “We’ve always been able to feel the echo of Atar’s emotions…and sometimes more than the echo.”

“Doesn’t that make things difficult for you, Haru?” Tyelperinquar asked.

“Sometimes, yes. I’m sure it tests my family’s patience as well. At times it’s the most wonderful gift in the world, and at other times…it frightens me.”

I could tell that Tyelperinquar was considering this carefully, but thankfully, he did not press me further. It was Macalaurë playing Atar’s funeral song I had in mind when I said my emotions could frighten me.

“Yes, I could see that,” said Tyelperinquar cautiously. He knew he was steering perilously close to subjects that would hurt me. All of my sons were highly perceptive, and the trait had clearly passed to my grandson.

Tyelperinquar took my hand again, this time with more warmth.

“Forgive me for not greeting you properly,” he said. “I knew you had been reborn, but I hadn’t heard you were in Formenos. Perhaps I would have if my father had written to me.”

Curufinwë’s face flushed red with more than the heat of the furnaces as I shot him a glare of disapproval. “Have you spoken to your son since you were reborn?”

Curufinwë spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You know what it’s like to return to people you’ve hurt, Atar. Yes, Tyelperinquar and I have spoken since my rebirth, but...well, you heard us arguing before.”

Some small part of me knew that his characteristic arrogance needed dampening, but going further would be crossing a line. There was parental discipline, and then there was cruelty.

Instead, I touched his arm to tell him that I was not truly angry. “It might serve you well to admit where you’ve gone wrong. Eru knows _I’m_ still refining that skill,” I said, and left it there.

Tyelperinquar was plainly discomfited by this exchange. Interposing himself between Curufinwë and me, he asked brightly, “Is your skill of hand as great as the histories say, Haru? Even the Nolofinwëan adaptations do not deny it.”

I drew myself up a bit. “I daresay it is.”

I could tell Tyelperinquar did not disapprove of my answer. He was rumored to be the mildest of all my descendants, but a touch of arrogance still held sway in him. He would not fault me for my craftsman’s pride.

“Well then, perhaps you would like to join me in a new project,” he said with a gleam in his eyes. “For some time now, I’ve been thinking that our soldiers should have a special advantage when the Dark Lord returns. No doubt he’ll have all manner of foul new things to throw at us. We ought to throw something back. Haru, you made weapons before the rebellion, yes?”

“Yes,” I said cautiously, “but I warn you, I’ve hardly been reborn a month, and I don’t have my full strength yet.”

“We could help you,” Tyelperinquar pressed. That fevered light of creation in his eyes – Eru, how it reminded me of my younger self! “Do you remember the formula for your silima?”

Suddenly, it struck me exactly what he intended to do. It was a brilliant theory, but sadly impractical. “If you intend to create silima armor,” I began, “I’m afraid I must discourage you. Silima is far too delicate and temperamental to work with in any large quantity. More than that, it…it consumes. I had good reason for telling the Valar that the Silmarilli were unique. We might apply it to sword-edges to make them harder and sharper than diamond, but nothing beyond that. New metallic alloys, however…”

I lacked the stamina for forge-work just yet, but the craftsman in me was thrumming with excitement. Already my mind had filled with possibilities: light, heat-resistant armor for fighting dragons and Valaraukar; arrowheads fit to cut through iron like a knife through butter; a battering ram hard and solid enough to break the gates of whatever fortress Moringotto might build himself… My grandson was right: if the Dark lord had new toys, we should have some too.

“Stronger armor and weapons would be of great aid to the soldiers tasked with defending Haru Finwë when Morgoth returns,” said Curufinwë hopefully.

As always, my fifth-born had a strong argument. I could not turn down the prospect of better defenses for Atar, not even if I had to give my soul for it.

“You understand,” I said, “that it may be some time before my new _hröa_ is strong enough for this.”

“I’d welcome your ideas nonetheless,” Tyelperinquar said. “Your creativity is legendary.”

I cast a meaningful glance at Curufinwë. “Perhaps it would do the two of you good to work together in the meantime. Two of the greatest smiths the Noldor have ever known – think what you could do.”

I could tell that this appeal to Curufinwë’s pride did not entirely overcome the tensions that lay between him and Tyelperinquar, but it was enough.

He shrugged. From anyone else, this would have been a dismissive gesture, but from my arrogant son it was nothing short of deferential.

“Very well,” he said. “We can start planning this summer.”

* * *

Tyelperinquar suggested that we get to know each other better before beginning our work together.

I was glad to take a step back and watch Tyelperinquar work. Observing a fellow artisan reveals a great deal. His use of a hammer speaks to his personality, and his grip on a chisel speaks to his mood.

I returned to the house that evening in high spirits. Nerdanel greeted me at the door, unfastening my cloak and hanging it on a peg with practiced ease. I told her what had transpired at the forges, though she was more excited at the prospect of new and powerful weapons than anything else. Her eyes were sparkling nearly as brightly as Tyelperinquar’s as I recited my ideas.

“Did Andion attack you?” she asked as she led me into the dining room.

“Oh, absolutely,” I replied with a laugh. “That lampstand-spear of hers is formidable.”

Nerdanel returned my grin with mischief in her eyes. “She and I have a joke about that. Every time I come into the smithy, she points that thing at me, pretends to have mistaken me for an enemy, and shouts, ‘Halt in the name of the king!’”

It was a good thing, I soon discovered, that I had spent the day building up my spirits. No sooner had we entered the dining room than I beheld Ambassador Senindë seated at the table, clad in a dapple-gray riding habit. Her silver hair was pinned back now, and she wore none of the pearl finery that had adorned her at the feast of my reinstatement, but her air of nobility and her dancer’s poise were undiminished. Despite her smile, I felt my blood run cold.

Nerdanel took one look at my face and grimaced. “I suppose I ought to have warned you.”

“No, it’s my fault. I made better time than I thought I would,” said Senindë graciously. “Eärwen would have come too, but with the king and all the princes here in Formenos, she thought she should stay in Tirion to help Queen Indis. Have you recovered from your poisoning, Fëanáro?”

Drawing on all my years at court, I slipped on a mask of composure.

“Completely, thank you,” I said with a nod. “I owe you my life, Excellency.”

There was no retreating from this. Turindo’s assassination attempt had yielded an unexpected benefit: it had given me an excuse to avoid speaking with the Telerin ambassador. Now I could hide no longer. I had sealed my fate when Senindë wrote to me before our departure asking if she might get to know me better, and I invited her to join me in Formenos. There was no way to withdraw from such an agreement with my dignity intact. My time to face Alqualondë was at hand. If I did not lay it to rest now, I never would.

Time to prove myself worthy of my crown.

I smiled, matching Senindë’s warmth. _Who is the statesman now, Nolofinwë?_

“Welcome to Formenos.”


	18. Conference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have this one early because I'm nervous about it.

The Telerin ambassador was as gracious as ever, but her grace felt wrong. It was the same at the feast in Tirion, when Senindë spoke up against Turindo and saved me from his assassination attempt. I would rather have had her hatred: that would have been more natural. Still, as off-putting as it was, I knew Senindë was sincere. Grace such as hers could not be feigned. I confirmed this with the elder of my sons, who had worked with Senindë in the past to restore Noldorin-Telerin relations.

“She was among the first of her people to extend the hand of reconciliation,” Maitimo said to me. “I believe Amil has told you of the diplomatic scandal she caused when she portrayed you in a ballet to commemorate the Darkening. Forgiveness is in her nature.”

Perhaps I could manage Senindë, then, but what of Eärwen, when we finally meet again? We had been close friends in our youth, neither of us much suited to court life. As a girl, she was a delicate, wispy thing who looked as though the slightest breeze might carry her out to sea, but she had a spirit to match my own. I had many fond memories of escaping my chaperones and running off with her for adventures in Alqualondë. In some ways, I preferred the seaside city to Tirion. It was less stifling, less fraught with tension. The people were relaxed and slow to judge, and Olwë always treated me well.

I betrayed all that. I betrayed that lovely, idyllic place and the friends I had there. Senindë was close with Eärwen; how could she look at me and smile?

Senindë was indeed a light such as grim Formenos had never known, dancing about in gowns of blue and green, bestowing affection on all. She treated me as though we were no more or less than new acquaintances getting to know one another.

She had done one tour of duty with the Vanguard, I learned, and though her true strength lay in healing, she was a competent archer. She and Tyelkormo had quite a lively competition the day before we departed for the hunting lodge. My third-born bested the ambassador in the end, but Tyelkormo was an uncharacteristically gracious victor. He admitted that he was nearly forced to concede when Senindë used my son’s most powerful longbow (we all feared she might break her slender arms) to glance an arrow off the weathervane high atop the house.

Packing up our things once again set our teeth on edge, but Senindë’s presence was a comfort. She was relaxed and uninhibited, and she feared absolutely nothing. She had a firm but gentle way of letting me know when I was becoming intolerable. Arafinwë in particular became noticeably more confident with Senindë about. He approached me as an equal, and his childhood habit of looking down when I spoke to him vanished. For the first time, I saw him for the wise, noble king he once was.

I was also struck by the unsettling realization that I really was nothing like my father. If anyone took after Atar, it was Arafinwë.

To say that I regretted leaving the dark house and its horrific memories would be a lie. I was not sorry at all to be back on the road, but the people of Formenos were loath to let us go. They lined the high street to see us off on the morning of our departure. When we had nearly reached the northern gate, Andion stepped from the crowd and presented me with a beautiful dagger she had wrought years ago for this purpose. She bade me read the inscription.

 _Light the mother of shadow_ , read one side; _will always conquer_ , read the other. My own words to Tyelperinquar.

“You’ll have to sharpen it yourself, Your Highness,” Andion told me. “It only seems right.”

I scarcely had the words to thank her. It was a fine piece of work, strong but elegant, and I knew it would serve me well.

“Andion, I cannot take this from you,” I protested.

She drew herself up proudly. “You must, Highness, for it is a gift. What good would my talents be if I could not use them to defend my beloved prince?”

I knew it was no good to argue with her. And really, who was I to turn down a gift so freely and generously given?

I slipped the dagger into my belt, pressed Andion’s hand in fellowship, and rode off.

* * *

Our party had grown since our departure from Tirion. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë had joined us, as well as Senindë, and the small forge at the back of the hunting lodge had enticed Tyelperinquar to come along. My grandson was hopeful that we could refine our plans for our new alloys there. Curufinwë, on the other hand, seemed quite unprepared to spend any amount of time with his son. They did not speak at all for the first few hours of our ride.

At the last, the tortured silence became too much for Curufinwë. He drew his horse alongside Tyelperinquar’s and asked quietly, “Does your mother hate me still?” Tyelperinquar rolled his eyes in response, and I heard them speaking softly and comfortingly to each other for the rest of the journey.

Thalieth came along also. At first I thought her an escort, but there were so many war-hardened soldiers among us that we hardly needed protection. No, it soon became clear that Thalieth had joined us for personal reasons. She and Maitimo rode very close together. I had never seen my eldest so comfortable with anyone outside his immediate family, except perhaps his cousin Findekáno. Thalieth, too, seemed quite at ease with my firstborn. She was quieter than he, but she had a lovely sense of humor, and she seemed to glow with strength and love of life.

We made good time, reaching the woods beyond the city before sunset. This was fortunate, for the hunting lodge lay a ways into the forest, and the storm had made the path treacherous. The mud had mostly dried, but the many fallen branches forced us to slow our pace. Maitimo was concerned for Thalieth’s safety, with her blindfold covering her light-sensitive eyes, though she managed perfectly well.

For me, the challenge was a mental one: I associated these woods with the darkest chapter of my life. Upon learning of Atar’s murder, I took my horse and rode with all possible haste back to Formenos where, shattered and unable to face my desperate people, I fled into the trees. I never reached the hunting lodge. I was told that I had been found in the shallows of the forest river, which had turned icy without the Treelight to warm it. My rescuers were certain I would die of the exposure. I was never able to recall that brush with death, only my desperate flight, and that was haunting enough.

Thalieth was a great comfort to me. She sensed my moods almost more clearly than Nerdanel did. After a short while, she turned to me and said, “You are troubled. Why?”

“This forest holds…painful memories,” I told her. “Memories of the Darkening.”

Thalieth extended her hand to me. I took it, comforted by the familiar soldier’s calluses on her fingers.

“But it isn't dark now,” said the Sinda. “It's beautiful. The late afternoon sun turns the light green as it passes through the trees. It lays a dappled blanket on the forest floor, a carpet of dancing light and shadow. A river flows below us, clear and cool, and the rocks at the bottom are smooth. It’s a good place to swim, I think.”

I was stunned by this beautiful, accurate description. The light passing through the canopy above us did indeed cast a green glow, a shifting patchwork of bright and dark on the leaf-strewn ground. If I canted my head, I could also hear the river – the same river that nearly killed me – running merrily in the valley below.

I did not ask Thalieth how she could possibly know this, with her blindfolded eyes. She was as in tune with nature as Oromë and Yavanna themselves.

Her smile brightened as she sensed the shift in my mood. “And the earth smells of rain,” she added. “I do love the smell of rain. Rain means new life…like fire.”

The next second, Thalieth blinked the haze of premonition from her eyes and smiled up at Maitimo as though nothing had happened at all. No one else seemed to notice her flash of foresight.

Maitimo put his hand on Thalieth’s arm. “Thalieth is very wise,” he told us proudly.

 _“Thal” indeed!_ I thought as we rode on. _Your affection for your Sindarin soldier is clear, my son, and small wonder you are drawn to her. You lost your hand, she the greater part of her sight. She survived the torments of Angamando just as you did and emerged wounded but unbroken. Your souls understand each other. I am glad for you, Nelyo._

Despite my happiness, I could not entirely banish Thalieth’s words from my mind. I was certain her prophecy, if prophecy it was, was meant for me alone.

* * *

We arrived at the hunting lodge just as Vása was sinking low in a last blaze of glory. It was a secluded place, set in a valley and surrounded by trees. The river ran behind the house, there reduced to a musical creek. Birds sang to each other in the trees, and fireflies passed on their light-messages as they flew. The air was cool and somewhat damp, but I found it invigorating. I even forgot to be irritable as we set about stabling our horses and carrying in our belongings. I was content to breathe deep the forest air and know I had left Tirion far behind me.

The lodge itself was a beautiful thing, the architectural antithesis of our manor in Formenos. It was built entirely of wood with a sturdy porch girding it on all sides; the upper floor had its own balcony. Wrought-iron lanterns hung from the roof-eaves at each of the four corners, and an elaborate stone fire ring lay a short distance away.

The rooms were all high and bright, but the front room was my favorite. Its ceiling soared the highest of all, and it had the largest window in the house, reaching nearly from the floor to the eaves and presenting a beautiful view of the deep green forest beyond. It was well-furnished with various armchairs and couches, all provided with plenty of pillows, and the rug on the floor was soft on bare feet. A great stone fireplace sat on one wall, its chimney stretching up to the roof. Beyond this room lay the kitchen and the hallway leading to the downstairs bedrooms, as well as the staircase to the upper floor. There were plenty of beds for us all, for which I was glad. Though Nolofinwë and I had made progress, I was not keen to bunk with him again.

The ritual unpacking went on as usual, though with a good deal less complaining this time. Indeed, it was not until I had nearly finished stocking the cupboards and icebox with food that something surprising happened.

“Atar,” came Tyelkormo’s voice from behind me.

I nearly dropped the several jars of jam Nerdanel’s comrades in Formenos had given her. Setting the jars carefully on the counter, I turned around and saw my third-born standing in the hall, fingers drumming agitatedly on his thighs. There was a storm brewing in his blue eyes.

“What could be so important, Turko, that you felt the need to startle me?” I asked, only mildly irritated.

“Have you seen Cullasseth’s repeating crossbow?”

Cullasseth? Why was that name so familiar?

“No, I can’t say I have, nor anything of the sort,” I replied cautiously.

“You wouldn’t have,” said Tyelkormo, more agitated still. “She’s only just _invented_ it. You ought to see it, though. It’s _disgusting_.”

My third-born had a habit of laying stress on certain words when he was aggravated, and I could not help but smile. “Jealous?” I teased. “You ought to have thought of it yourself.”

“Oh, hush up, Atar! No one’s ever thought of anything ahead of you!”

Tossing a disdainful scoff over his shoulder, Tyelkormo shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and walked back outside. I did not have the heart to scold him.

Cullasseth… Where had I heard that name before? Why did I know it? It was not Quenya; it had the slightly harsher ring of Sindarin. Someone I knew in my previous life?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

I followed Tyelkormo outside to the yard. There, standing at Nerdanel’s side, was a pretty _nís_ clad entirely in the greens and browns of the forest. Her auburn hair was plaited after the manner of the Vanguard, a tiny Fëanárian star glittering at the end. She had gold-flecked hazel eyes filled with warmth and curiosity. Something about the way she held herself, the energy pulsing through her limbs, reminded me of Írimë.

Suddenly she became achingly familiar. I knew her, I was certain. She had meant something to me once, something good, but in what black night had she been the silver star? I could not recall.

The lady approached me and twined my fingers with hers. She touched my chest and then her own with our twined hands and said, “Curufin Faenor…Rhavloth Cullasseth.”

The gesture dispelled the haze from my memory at once. This was the first interaction she and I had ever shared, a simple exchange of names.

I recalled stumbling onto the shores of Lake Mithrim, exhausted from the march and the burdens of leadership. I sought solitude in the dark forest and soon found myself held at arrowpoint by a curious young Sinda. She was of noble birth, though she spurned court life in favor of a position on the Mithrim border guard, and her adventurous spirit was a balm. She reminded me of myself in my younger years. We became fast friends despite the language barrier between us, and she began teaching me her people’s ways. I discovered, too, that she was a skilled healer as well as a deadeye with a bow. She could shoot by starlight, having grown up before the first sunrise, and I often wondered how much more devastating she would be in the daytime.

She followed my sons to Dor Daedeloth when the Valaraukar defeated me. Her skills might indeed have saved my life had she not come too late.

How could I have forgotten her? She was the one living being I trusted in those dark days, more so even than my sons. It was she who reminded me what life was.

“Cullasseth,” I murmured. My time in Mandos had afforded me plenty of opportunities to acquaint myself with Sindarin, so I addressed her in her mother-tongue. “Cullasseth, my old friend, what brought you to our shores?”

“I sailed to Valinor after my rebirth,” she said cheerfully in the same tongue, “to better serve my captain and the Vanguard. I’m here in these woods to hunt for my dinner.”

“She is the founder and leader of Godspeed, the Vanguard’s eagle-back division,” said Nerdanel proudly. “She also does excellent work with the Night Owls. A demon archer, she is.”

“Of course, of course.” I grinned, clasping Cullasseth’s forearm. “I’m sure you’ve been the bane of every dragon in Angamando by now.”

“I wish!” Cullasseth laughed. She threw her arms around my neck in an embrace that nearly knocked me to the ground.

I saw Nerdanel quirk an eyebrow. “You know each other?” she asked. “I’m aware that you are well-acquainted with Macalaurë, Wingleader, but you’ve said nothing of my husband.”

Cullasseth laughed sheepishly. “I was afraid to,” she confessed. “There were times when I thought you would cut off my head just for mentioning him!”

“I was never _that_ angry!”

“You know Macalaurë?” I asked my companion, curiosity roused.

“Aye, I’ve known him for a long while,” said Cullasseth. Her face was touched with something warm and gentle, mingled with sorrow. “Longer than he was aware. You shall have the tale, I promise. I want you to see my new toy first!”

She turned to Nerdanel, who handed her the crossbow she had been holding. It was a beautiful weapon, carven of sturdy dark wood in the likeness of a screaming eagle. Its outstretched wings formed the bow’s limbs and the body its stock. Cullasseth took it with a craftsman’s pride in her eyes.

“Ah, so this is the crossbow that Tyelkormo so envies,” I teased. “You shall have to show me its power. It must be magnificent indeed to upset Turko so.”

Cullasseth caressed the bowstring. “It isn’t quite so powerful as a heavy crossbow. I doubt it could pierce strong armor, but its speed makes up for that. It can fire ten bolts almost in as many seconds before it needs reloading.”

I could understand her pride in her work, being a weaponsmith myself. I knew precisely what was making her eyes sparkle and her face glow.

“Show me, old friend,” I pressed with a grin.

Practically bouncing with anticipation, Cullasseth went about the yard gathering stones, all of which were quite small; then she climbed up a nearby tree to lay out ten of them on a branch. She climbed like she had been born in the trees, as she always had. When she had finished her preparations, she retrieved her weapon and walked so far from the tree that the stones must have been small gray blurs to her eye.

“Count to fifteen on my signal!” she called to us. She readied her weapon, took aim, and gave us a nod.

Cullasseth’s slender arm was a blur as she worked the lever that released the bolts from the magazine. If she hesitated to aim, it was so slight as to be unnoticeable. The click of the release and the twang of the string were rhythmically precise. Cullasseth seemed to take no notice of the recoil, either. Within the fifteen seconds she had allotted, all ten stones had been knocked from the tree branch and lay in the grass alongside the bolts that smote them.

I could not help but applaud. Cullasseth made us a bow.

“It won’t be so easy to hit moving targets, of course,” she said modestly. “My enemies are not likely to sit still.”

“Do you mean to say that was easy for you?” I asked, disbelieving. I could not imagine accomplishing such a feat myself, much less dismissing it as a trifle. Cullasseth’s precision and speed were true testaments to her skill.

“Well, no, not really,” Cullasseth confessed, “but a simple matter compared to shooting from the back of an eagle.”

Nerdanel and I exchanged glances. Pride was written in her face. _Yes,_ said her gaze, _this is the skill of the Vanguard. The enemy is in for an unpleasant surprise._

“There is a reason this young lady has been so highly decorated,” said my wife. “I believe she has just demonstrated it.”

“Oh, never mind that!” said the Sinda with a wave of her hand. Laying down her weapon, she came and put her arms around me, holding me in a surprisingly strong embrace. “What truly makes me happy is seeing you again, _mellon-nín_ ,” she whispered, and kissed my cheek. “Welcome home.”

* * *

Cullasseth departed for other parts of the valley, following her quarry, though she promised to return soon. Without her brave spirit, I grew ever more uneasy in Senindë’s presence. I knew that I had no choice but to hold council with her tonight. If I didn’t, I would surely be sick with anxiety. The Teler, on the other hand, was quite relaxed, though she too seemed to be eager to have our conference over with. It was bound to be awkward for us all.

For once, I was glad to have Arafinwë at my side. He knew the Teleri better than I. We built a fire in the stone ring outside the house, and then together we sought out Senindë.

“Remember what Nólo told you,” Arafinwë murmured as we led the Teler to her seat before the fire. “Be sincere, but be calm. Be humble, but not passive. This is delicate –”

“The Valar showed no delicacy when they doomed us!” I hissed, whirling on him.

“They doomed you because you attacked a people with whom you were not at war!"

"There won't be any fighting tonight, I hope," came Senindë’s voice. The shadows of firelight on her face made her look almost divine, an unearthly incarnation of all that was good and just.

I turned to her. "What do you propose, Excellency?”

“I propose we talk, you and I. The Teleri and the Noldor have been reconciled for thousands of years. You are the last piece of that puzzle.”

I glanced at Arafinwë for aid that would not come and braced myself for the worst.

I took a breath to steady myself. “Very well. Would you tell me how the reconciliation was accomplished, Excellency?” That seemed a safe enough place to start.

Senindë shrugged with her easy grace. “Time and tide, and conversations like this one. For such a long time, the Noldor saw us as emblems of their guilt, and we saw them as betrayers of peace. It was only once we started talking that we began to look upon each other as people again.”

“And what prompted you to talk?”

“Many things, but most people attribute it to the War of Wrath. The Telerin court was very divided as to whether we should join the war. Some argued that whatever our bitterness towards the Noldor, Morgoth was a foe for all Arda. Others were less inclined to be charitable. In the end, as you may know, we granted the Host of Valinor the use of our ships but sent no soldiers. It was only after Morgoth was overthrown that we began to hear stories of all the terrible losses the Noldor suffered in Beleriand.”

“And so the blood debt was paid."

“Yes. Relations began to warm after that, thanks be to Eru, but I don’t fancy the idea of blood debts myself. There are better ways of making restitution. And sometimes we must forgive because _we_ deserve peace of mind and heart as much as those who have wronged us.”

“Is that what you sought to do when you portrayed me in that ballet?”

Senindë smiled at Arafinwë as if sharing an old, old secret. “You remember, don’t you?”

"I remember the diplomatic nightmare you caused,” Arafinwë said with an uncharacteristic dry humor that made me smile.

“I was young and strong-willed, the reconciliation was still a long way off, and no one would tell me why I wasn’t allowed to see any of the people I knew in Tirion,” Senindë went on. “I understood the grief – I lost friends that night, too – but I was tired of hurting and I wanted answers. I wanted to know what could make people who had been our friends and allies turn on us.”

"No doubt you were told that I was a monster and my people were drunk on my sorcerous words,” I said.

Arafinwë looked at me sharply, but Senindë just nodded. “More or less. I thought there must be more to it, so I dyed my hair Noldorin black and went to Tirion in secret. When I heard about the dance production being staged to commemorate the Darkening, I saw my opportunity. Dancing the part of Curufinwë Fanáro allowed me to explore your mind as much as I could without actually meeting you in person.”

“My condolences to you.”

Senindë laughed aloud, a beautiful, chiming sound. “That’s exactly the sense of humor I always thought you must have! Well, I told no one I was a Teler until after the production was over. When word reached Alqualondë, I was labeled a traitor. Some people say I was banished, but I left of my own accord. Formenos welcomed me as a fellow dissident.”

That gave me hope. I had always loved rebels. “And now you are the Telerin ambassador to the Noldor.”

“Because my people recognized that I could _talk_ to the Noldor. I could understand them without ever excusing them.”

“The dance helped you do that?”

“I think so. I wondered, even as I was auditioning, if I was ready to venture into the mind of the man who attacked my city. I won’t pretend it was easy, but it gave me the understanding I was looking for.”

“You must be very strong, Excellency.” I paused, dreading what might come next. “And what was your understanding?”

Senindë eyed me steadily, the firelight dancing in her eyes like the flames on the sea at Losgar. “I would rather hear yours.”

Arafinwë clasped my wrist as my breath quickened. This was the thing I feared the most. How could I explain what led me to the Kinslaying without appearing defensive? Even with all my oratorical experience, these circumstances were frighteningly delicate. All I could do, I supposed, was tell the truth, and leave Senindë to believe what she would. Now was not the time for clever arguments or ornate language. I counted to five to steady myself, then spoke.

“I fear it isn’t as complicated as you may believe, Excellency. The loss of my father and my treasure consumed me. I knew that if I did not avenge both, and soon, I would lose my soul as well. Vengeance would save me, or so I believed, and every minute that passed was wasted time, time for my enemy to escape my grasp. You had what I needed, and you would not give it to me, so I ordered it taken. I suspected there might be resistance, but we were untested in battle, all of us, and… Well, you know what happened.”

Arafinwë’s hand tightened on my wrist to warn me not to say the things he must know I was thinking. I was trembling. _I did not sanction bloodshed, but I knew it might come. We all wish to preserve our lives and property. Noldor or Teleri, none of us were inclined to stand still and die._

“Calm,” my half-brother whispered to me. “Be calm.”

I could not. I remembered only too well the moment Eärwen’s youngest brother Fárion and I, entangled in close combat, fell into the dark water of an open cistern. There was a terrible pressure on my chest and neither of us knew the way up. I remembered the terror that drove me to lash out with my knife. I remembered also looking back to see if Fárion had fought his way to the surface, then shaking myself free of guilt and carrying on.

“Carry on” was my creed in those dark days. In the aftermath of Alqualondë, Maitimo asked me why I showed no regret for what had happened. It was not that I had no regrets – I had many – but they made me feel weak, and they were less important than the war.

In response, Maitimo encompassed the bloodstained harbor with a sweep of his arm and demanded furiously, “Is this what you would call strength?”

“Yes,” I said icily. “Strength is reaching out and seizing what you desire and holding onto it, because if you cannot, the world will take it from you and never give it back.”

This was a barb at my failure to save my father’s life, but Maitimo heard only pride and refused to speak to me for weeks.

Presently, Senindë was still watching me, but she made me no answer. Perhaps she had none.

“Did Prince Fárion die?” I asked her in little more than a whisper.

"No,” she returned inscrutably. “Nearly, but no.”

I found I could breathe again.

We sat in silence for a time. I wondered if I had affirmed Senindë’s understanding of me or destroyed it completely. Arafinwë looked just as uncertain. The fire threw a screen of smoke between Senindë and me, and I found it strangely symbolic. Would there always be a veil of suspicion and bitterness between the leaders of the Teleri and the Noldor?

For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the chirping of crickets.

I turned my eyes to the ground as something began to burn at the back of my throat. There was only one thing I could do now.

“I needed your ships to avenge my father, and that was my highest priority,” I began, “but I ought to have understood how much your people loved them. Eru knows I loved the Silmarilli well enough in those days. I’ve grieved so deeply for what happened that night, and for my own part in it. I can offer you only my promise that it will never happen again.”

Beside me, Arafinwë looked astonished. I was quite as surprised with myself.

I heard Senindë release her breath. “Say that to Eärwen when you see her. More than anything, she wants to know you’ve changed.” Then her voice warmed a little. “I see I was correct in my portrayal of you: pride and anger set beside uncertainty, fear, and all-consuming grief.”

“None of this exonerates me, Excellency. You would have done better had you been in my position. You seek to understand, not to master.”

“I do understand, but I don’t forget. We must never forget. Tragedies forgotten are tragedies repeated.”

“I hardly think the Noldor are inclined to sack Alqualondë again, Excellency.”

“They weren’t so inclined the first time either, but something made them do it. Was it fear? Grief? Chaos? Anger? A need for vengeance? Morgoth’s clever lies? All of these, most likely. If we do not understand these things, how can we guard against them in the future?”

“Then how are you and I to move on?” I asked.

“We will keep Alqualondë in our hearts and go forward in forgiveness.”

“I am more than willing if you are.”

“The people of Alqualondë wish you to take responsibility for the First Kinslaying – which you have done tonight,” said Senindë, “but they also recognize that Morgoth is their true enemy. We were all pieces on his chessboard in those days.”

“You would have made different choices had you been Noldóran,” I said darkly to Arafinwë. “Moringotto sowed the seeds of ruin, but I tended them diligently.”

“He marked you for destruction as he marked no one else, Fëanáro.”

“But I made my decisions –”

“Will you hush? I’m trying to explain to you that you aren't wholly evil.”

This sounded a good deal harsher than I thought my half-brother intended. “Thank you, Aro,” I said dryly.

Senindë raised her hands for silence. “The Dark Lord will use anyone he can,” she said. “We’ve seen that many times. The Kinslaying is a Noldorin shame, but Morgoth is our common enemy. He will come again, he will lie again, and any of us might hear and take heed. If we do, we will fall and fall again just like before.”

“Then we ought to be allies, if you’ll have me.” I offered her my hand, quite certain, despite all she had said, that she would not take it.

But she did. She slipped her hand gently into mine and squeezed with a genuine warmth.

“Precisely.”

* * *

Senindë had one condition: I was to come to Alqualondë that autumn for the annual ceremony of remembrance, at which I would make my public apologies (I hated that word, “apology;” it fell so terribly short of what I felt and what the Telerin people deserved). I suspected this was Olwë’s condition far more than it was the ambassador’s. Olwë had always taken it upon himself to rein me in where my father would not. His refusal of the ships had been his last attempt to restrain my excesses; now that I was reborn, he had apparently resumed his efforts.

Arafinwë had told me of this ceremony during the feast in Tirion, had told me that many Noldor attended every year to pay their respects, but I could not imagine myself joining them. Surely not all the Teleri were as gracious and understanding as Senindë, even now. Surely Eärwen wasn’t. Well, I had some months yet to prepare myself. Perhaps I would grow more confident with time.

Still, Arafinwë seemed pleased with our impromptu conference. “You hardly said a word,” I told him as we walked down the hall to the bedrooms.

“I didn’t need to. You didn’t say anything irredeemable.”

“I didn’t say much at all.”

“Exactly. You let Her Excellency speak, which is precisely what you should have done. You said only what you needed to say.”

I suspected this was not the last time I would learn this lesson.

* * *

I had not thought so deeply about the First Kinslaying since my time in Mandos. By the time I reached my chambers that night, I was so drained in mind and heart that I had just enough strength to kick off my boots and crawl into bed fully clothed. It was not the sort of pleasant exhaustion that follows a day of good work, either. It was the exhaustion of one who has spent his strength on an uncertain task and knows he will sleep uneasily because of it.

Nerdanel was quite awake when I collapsed beside her. She sat up and put her arms around me, gently rubbing the tension from my shoulders. I let her rest her head against my neck.

“You don’t wish to speak of it,” she said quietly. “I will not question you.” She smoothed my bangs back from my face and kissed my brow. “Rest tomorrow. Don’t go to your forge.”

My eyelids were growing heavy.

“But…Tyelperinquar and Curufinwë will be…expecting me…”

“Then I shall say you are unwell. I can advise them if need be. I’m not incompetent, you know.”

“Tell them…not to worry…”

Nerdanel pressed her lips to mine and drew me closer. “Sleep, love.”

“Mm.”

I needed my wife to hold me, and I was grateful beyond words that she understood that unspoken necessity. I needed her courage, her will, her faith, all the things that allowed her to stand her ground and never look back. I needed her love most of all.

 _Don’t leave me_ , I begged her in thought.

 _Lady Varda will ally herself with the Dark Lord before I do that again_ , she returned.

I slept in her arms, shielded by her valiant spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhavloth Cullasseth’s names mean “Wildflower” and “Red-Gold Leaf.”
> 
> Cullasseth calls Fëanáro “Faenor” because the more common spelling, “Fëanor,” is actually a hybrid of Quenya and Sindarin. Being a native Sindarin-speaker, Cullasseth uses the pure Sindarin form.
> 
> Mellon-nín – Sindarin, “my friend.”
> 
> I think I hate dealing with the subject of Alqualondë as much Fëanáro does. It’s so delicate. Senindë helps, though. The story of the Telerin dancer who extended the hand of peace by portraying Curufinwë Fëanáro in a ballet is one I might want to tell on its own.


	19. Summer

I would be false to say that my conference with Senindë put me at ease. I was relieved, of course, to see the ambassador send her messenger falcon home bearing word that I had accepted her terms. It was out of my hands, literally and figuratively. All I could do now was compose the remarks I would deliver in Alqualondë that autumn and pray to Eru I could capture my remorse in words. A sense of powerlessness haunted me long after Senindë’s falcon had vanished. Still, I had come to the hunting lodge to heal, and I intended to do so.

We used the fire ring almost every night that summer. It was much easier, albeit slower, to cook our meals there than in the small kitchen. Soon the people of Formenos began dropping in to visit, and after that the fire ring quickly became the site of songs and stories. Those nights lingered in the form of smiles on our lips long after they were over. Thus did we establish the tale-fire, a phrase which became synonymous with merriment and good company.

Andion, who had taken quite a shine to me, was our most frequent visitor. I liked her stories the best. There was a strange, hard beauty to her speech, like a moonrise behind a black mountain. Her language was unadorned, but her sense of drama made up for it. On one particularly pleasant night, she told us the story of Nerdanel’s first Vanguard recruitment drive.

“You may not know, Highness,” she began, “but there is a chapel in Tirion, built during Prince Arafinwë’s reign so that the Noldor might keep vigil with their fallen kings and pray for their rebirth. In the early years of the Fëanárian revival, when the followers of your Star still had to hide their allegiance for fear of persecution, it was a sanctuary. There are dozens of white lilies arranged along the altar steps, and candles beyond count burning amongst them. At night, when Vása is sleeping, those candles turn the light to gold. You should see it, Prince Fëanáro, before you leave us. Light a candle for your father’s safety in the coming war.

“One night early in the Second Age, a small group of loyalists had gathered in the chapel to offer petitions for your rebirth. It was an unsettled sort of night, with a wind that drove clouds across the moon and threw shifting shadows on the ground. It was also the anniversary of your death, and we intended to keep vigil until dawn.

“Well, the hours passed quietly and peacefully for a while. It was nearly morning when quite suddenly, every one of the candles flared high as though newly lit. There was an incredible flash of light, and we had to close our eyes. What do you think we saw when we opened them?

"Nerdanel Istarnië stood before us, clad in silver armor chased with gold and scarlet, a sword in her hand. When she looked at us, we were certain that you had returned to us in some form. Her eyes, Fëanáro, the light in them… She was the glory of old Valinor incarnate. After a time, I suppose one of us whispered your name, for our new commander tossed her hair and said, ‘Not quite, but I come in his name. I come to turn the tide.’”

This tale sent thrills shivering through me. It was only fitting for Nerdanel to begin her recruitment on the anniversary of my death. The Vanguard welcomed _nissi_ of all stripes, but at its core it was and always had been a fiercely Fëanárian host. Those women in the chapel must have felt that dawn had finally broken. Nerdanel had given them a chance to break the chains of their mourning, redeem and avenge themselves on the battlefield, and prove to all that the followers of Fëanáro were worthy to lead.

“That bit of magic with the candles was accomplished by a sympathetic Maia,” Nerdanel confessed to me as Andion finished her tale. “Pyromancy is not among my skills.”

The fire ring was not our only playground in those days. We spent many of our days in the woods around the lodge, and I managed to put aside the haunted memories they held. We rode where the trees were thin, and where they grew close, with roots running through the path like living veins, we hiked. The terrain was rugged, some of the ascents so steep that we nearly had to crawl, pulling ourselves up by way of tree trunks and niches between rocks.

It was some of the most beautiful country in the north. One day we came upon a lonely waterfall basin, shaded by cedar and spruce. It was not deep enough for proper swimming, but there were many flat-topped rocks where we could sit and eat as we cooled our feet. There was a primeval tang in the air, evergreen mixed with earth, and the quiet held its own sort of sanctity.

Another day, we came upon a creek bed where full of little cairns, crudely built of stream-smoothed stones. I had the unsettling impression this might be a tribute to my father.

Still another afternoon, we walked all along the valley rim, passing through cool, damp tunnels in the rock where voices echoed and cliff swallows nested. Below was naught but the green forest and silver water. We inevitably returned hot and exhausted, but the burn in our muscles was pleasant. If we thought of anything at all, it was of supper.

We devised new forms of entertainment as well. One of these involved the very stream which was nearly the death of me so long ago.

It began when we happened upon a large tree limb, laid perfectly across the water by the storm that first night in Formenos. This became our tournament field. We balanced precariously upon it, long branches from the valley floor in hand, and tried to knock our opponents from their perches. The sheer stupidity of the game held an irresistible attraction for us all. The threat of falling into the cold water made us fierce, but compounded by Noldorin pride, we became positively dangerous. Macalaurë’s exuberant commentary only heightened the excitement.

Many times the loser would leap lightly down from the log when he felt himself unbalanced, but it was far more satisfying to see him fall with a splash. My finest hour was when I condemned Nolofinwë to this fate with one sweep of my wooden weapon. My victory was short-lived, however: Nerdanel unbalanced me in my next match, and I found myself sprawled in the stream, gasping with the shock of the chilly water and laughing so hard that Maitimo had to help me clamber out.

“You should have told me how cold it was!” I threw in Nolofinwë’s direction.

To this, my half-brother merely smirked. “I didn’t think it necessary. Does your infamous fiery spirit not warm you?”

The upshot of all this was that we often stayed out far too late and had to wend our way back to the house, shivering, in the dark. Our discomfort never lasted long. Atar in his goodness took it upon himself to light the fires and brew tea for us when we returned. He was wont to fuss over us more than was necessary, and over me most of all. Embarrassed though I was, I never objected to sitting with him in the living room, sipping tea in companionable silence until the lights burned out and my head dropped onto Atar’s shoulder. In the morning, I would wake to the gentle clatter of silverware from the kitchen and a blanket tucked around me.

Work on the new alloys progressed slowly. We could do nothing until we had firm designs to work from, and it was difficult for three proud, opinionated Noldor to agree on anything. Thus far, all we had established was that soldiers’ needs would vary based on their roles. We spent many an afternoon arguing good-naturedly over the best designs for each purpose. It quickly became apparent that we three had forged armaments in very different eras.

“I confess that I prefer my own crucible steel for swords,” I said one afternoon. “It’s strong and flexible and relatively light.”

“Take no offense, Atar,” Curufinwë cut in. “Your crucible steel was ahead of its time when you devised it, and it’s a reliable material still today. But the forging process is so terribly complex, and the blade can crack at any moment.”

“ _That_ could be true of any material,” I countered coolly. It was an effort not to bristle at this suggestion that my prized formula was outdated.

Curufinwë grinned. “Not of mine.”

This was too much. “You will not convince me that your alloy is immune to cracking during the forging process!”

“Forgive me, Atar, but it is.”

At this point Tyelperinquar set himself between us with a mischievous look. “Is that so? Well, forgive _me_ , Atar, but I seem to recall an afternoon in Mithrim… I picked the lock on your forge door because I feared for your sanity, and I found you kneeling on the floor begging to know why your blade cracked in the final quenching.”

Curufinwë stared at his son for a moment, then sank back into his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I suppose you’ve never cracked a sword,” he spat at me.

One of the first blades I ever forged cracked in the final quenching, in fact, and I was devastated at having to start again. I learned quickly enough, however, that it was not my fault. The rapid heating and cooling of steel is a risky business for any craftsman, even if every step is performed correctly.

I eyed my son steadily. “Of course I have. It happens to all at one time or another, Curufinwë. It’s a cause for aggravation, certainly, but not shame.”

My fifth-born seemed unable to accept that I was not criticizing him. He blinked at me as if to ask, _Since when do you overlook my mistakes?_ Not for the first time, it struck me that my stern teaching and impeccably high standards, though well-intended, might have done him harm.

“Do you believe that?” he asked. Gone was the master craftsman, spiritual successor of Fëanáro. In his place was a timid, uncertain child.

“I do,” I affirmed gently. “You need not try to impress me, Curufinwë. In matters of smithcraft, I would much rather have an imperfect truth than a perfect fabrication. A flawed material can be refined, but I can’t work with something that doesn’t exist.”

“Listen to your father, Atar,” Tyelperinquar muttered. “Eru knows you told me the same often enough.”

I folded my arms. “And you respect your own, Tyelpë. Now come, _yonya_ , tell me the truth of this alloy of yours.”

They were getting on better, my fifth-born and his heir. They exchanged fewer bitter words now, and they shared moments of affection as well. The barriers between them would be slow to yield, I knew. They had been forged in the heat of ages.

* * *

Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar were not the only ones to heal old wounds that summer. I was more inclined to accept Nolofinwë’s company now that he had seen me in the throes of poison and nightmares. He too seemed to believe that if I intended to hurt him, I would have done it by now. Still, it was difficult to find common ground. Too often, we found ourselves groping for the happy childhood memories we shared only to find that they did not exist.

“We were all right until the Dark Lord began spinning his lies,” Nolofinwë insisted one afternoon as we walked the trail to the waterfall for the hundredth time that summer. It was a long hike, and that gave us plenty of time to speak. “You were always cool towards me, but until Morgoth was released you could be kind when you wanted to.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Kind, indeed? I’m called many things, Nólo, but _kind_ is not often among them.”

“I remember a time when I was very young and still learning the arts of rhetoric and oration. I stepped out before the audience to give my first public recitation, and suddenly my mind was wiped clean. I couldn’t remember the passage I had memorized to save my life. Of course I ran away. Do you remember who caught up with me and made me try again?”

The memory brought an odd smile to my lips. _I_ told him to try again. He remembered his passage that second time, too, and flawlessly. All he needed was a push.

“I was furious with you, you know, for embarrassing Atar.” The words might have sounded harsh, but there was no real sting in my voice. “But you wept so piteously that Lord Námo himself would have been moved.”

“Was that it?” Nolofinwë’s smile was knowing. “Why not let me humiliate myself?”

I was keenly aware that he could see right through me. I had never loved him, but even then, long before my sons were born, I could not stand to see children cry.

I ignored him pointedly.

We came upon a small grotto where a slender stream of water trickled down the rocks to slap sharply against the ground. I put my fingers in the water and sent up a glittering spray. I could smell traces of the sulfur that occurred naturally in this part of Valinor, and it reminded me of the forge. Nolofinwë watched me curiously for a moment. I wondered what the smell evoked for him. _Losgar_ , said a small, treacherous voice in my mind. _To you, fire is life. To him, it is death._

“I passed that recitation because of you,” said my half-brother idly.

He glanced at me, expecting a response. When I gave none, he eyed me more critically. My countenance must have betrayed me. “You are so unfair to yourself. Eru knows you’ve made mistakes, but they needn’t be all that you are –”

“If you recall, you repaid me just days after that presentation,” I cut in. I doubted very much that my still-fragile _fëa_ could withstand another discussion of the past. “You came with me to the palace smithy because you wished to see what kept me away from home for so long. It was silly of me, really, to wander in there wearing my court robes with their full sleeves… You remember how I burned my arm.”

It was not a dangerous burn, but serious enough to require a healer’s attention. Young as we were, it seemed a matter of life and death. I had just begun my apprenticeship, I had never received such a wound, and I had never felt such pain. Nolofinwë had never seen my composure crumble as it did then.

“I learned to fear fire that day,” he went on. “I hadn’t thought it could do such terrible things to fabric…and to skin.”

“You must have seen enough of it in the wars.”

Nolofinwë smiled wryly. “I wasn’t so brave as a child. I had never seen anyone in such pain. I remember how you begged me to help you back to your room before anyone saw, because you were terrified that if Atar found out, he would never let you go back to Mahtan. I remember how you bit your lip to keep from crying out. That frightened me most of all.”

“I recall that you stayed with me for a night and a day, by today’s reckoning,” I told him. “You saw to my burns to the best of your knowledge, and you kept me warm against the shock. At the last, you dared my wrath to tell Atar what had happened and summon a healer. When next I woke, you were with me still. You had gone gray for lack of sleep. If you can believe it, Nólo, _that_ was what frightened _me_ most of all.”

I wondered if he knew that grayness signified death to me. It had ever since my first vigil in Lord Irmo’s gardens. My mother’s skin had turned the same color.

“Oh?” said Nolofinwë, a bit too off-handedly. He wanted to believe it, wanted to believe I once cared for him as he had for me. I did not know myself whether that was true. “And you remember still, after all this time?”

The memory had come and gone through the ages, vanishing sometimes for centuries, but it always returned. I doubted I would ever forget Nolofinwë’s high, scared voice, or the way his small form shook with tears when he thought I could not see.

“ _Nólo, help me, I’m so cold_ …”

_Small arms wrapped around me, thin and shaking with fear but surprisingly strong._

“ _Stay close to me, Náro. You’ll be all right. Y-you have to be!_ ”

Ages and wars and treachery later, the same scene played out again on the night I was poisoned.

“I fell asleep at the foot of your bed,” my half-brother mused. “You let me stay.”

As a child, Nolofinwë had loved so unconditionally, so freely and selflessly. It didn’t matter to him how many times his elder brother spurned him. Even now, despite all that had come to pass, he still loved me. In his heart, he was still a child, still willing to give everything and receive nothing in return. In that moment, I truly wished I had such a selfless heart. History might have been very different.

We had reached the waterfall basin. I sat down on a rock, kicked off my boots, and lowered my feet into the cool water. Nolofinwë did the same in silence. I knew he was looking intently at me, but I had fallen into such a pensive mood that I could only stare blankly at the falls.

For a moment, all the world was reduced to the smell of sulfur and my own regretful thoughts.

Nolofinwë’s hand came to rest on my shoulder.

“Where are you, Fëanáro? You aren’t here. Where are you?”

The words came slowly and thickly through the haze of memory. “In a world of things I can’t change.”

I could all but feel the pity in Nolofinwë’s eyes. He scoffed. “Well, that won’t do. We would much rather you were here with us. Come back, yes?”

In my mind, I saw myself standing on the dais in the Court of the King, a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, speaking the too-beautiful words that led my people to doom. I had to tell myself several times that the past was behind me before I could draw a proper breath. Nolofinwë grasped my shoulder more tightly.

“How?” I rasped. “How can I come back?”

“ _Live_ , Fëanáro.” Nolofinwë’s voice was suddenly fierce. “You know how precious life is. Cherish each day as a gift, drink each moment to its last drops and savor its sweetness. Dream something impossible, then make it real and watch the cynics’ smiles fade. Accept a challenge. Do something you’ve never done before. Do something you fear. Sing, dance, be a child. Set off fireworks in the yard with no thought to who might hear. And the next time Nelyo tells a tale that amuses you, laugh even if no one else does. Don’t think of today or tomorrow or yesterday. Think of now. Now is where life is.”

There was such simple eloquence in this speech that I was momentarily silent. I was quite sure just then that Nolofinwë saw the world more clearly than the Valar themselves.

I looked at him with new eyes. I saw the child who had bathed my burned arm with cool water even as he bit back frightened tears.

I leaned down from my rock, picked up a pebble, and let it fly with a flick of my wrist. It skipped five times across the basin before sinking to the bottom.

Nolofinwë arched an eyebrow.

“What, can you do better?” I demanded.

“We’ll see.” My half-brother smiled with a mischief I had never seen on his always too-mature face.

How long we sat there skipping stones, I do not know. I do know that for a time, the child-Fëanáro who vanished far too soon was reborn.


	20. Flight

Late afternoon was deepening to evening when we reached the clifftops. Nolofinwë soon departed for the lodge, not wanting to negotiate such terrain in the dark. I stayed to watch the sunset. The beauty of Vása was spectacular, of course, but that was not my only reason for remaining behind. Nolofinwë had challenged me to escape the past. I wanted to look upon Vása without thinking of the Silmarilli and all that happened because of them. If the Allfather had wished me to change the past, I would have been reborn in the Years of the Trees.

It was growing cold, and the shrubs and grasses offered no shelter from the wind. I wished I had brought a cloak. I chose a spot on the rocks that was still warm from the sun, drew my knees up, and tucked my hands beneath them.

It was then that I saw the eagle.

My childhood was full of tales of Taniquetil and the divine birds that soared to and fro at Manwë Súlimo’s behest. I had seen them on occasion, but only as dark specks against the sky. This one stood mere yards from me, massive and powerful and more magnificent than I had ever imagined. Its feathers were a light brown streaked with gold that burned when the sun struck it. The beak was long and dagger-sharp, matching the hooked talons curled over the rock. The eyes were miraculous. They were the deepest brown I had ever known, keen and penetrating. They followed my every movement with a consideration that bespoke great intelligence. I had the uncomfortable impression, too, that the eagle could understand speech.

The bird was not alone: Nerdanel was seated on its back. The sunset caught in her hair, bathing her in a deep orange glow that put me in mind of live coals. The clouds thew light and shadow across her face, sometimes softening, sometimes sharpening. She had always been beautiful to me, no matter how many times the Tirion elite called her plain. That evening, she could have been a Valië, patroness of soldiers.

As I watched, speechless, my wife slid to the ground. She made her way to me, smiling a vague smile that bespoke mischief. The wind caught her mane of fiery hair and tossed it over her shoulder like a Fëanárian banner.

She traced the contours of my cheeks with her fingertip. “You’ve been away since this morning. I’ve missed you.” And she kissed me so gently, so tenderly that I forgot every regret I ever had.

“Istyë, what…?” I faltered, gesturing at the eagle. The bird was preening with no small amount of dignity.

My wife smiled again. “Well, it’s been some time since we’ve had a moment alone,” she said. She walked back towards the eagle. The bird obligingly lowered its head for her to caress. For a moment, I was deathly afraid she would be torn apart, but the eagle only nuzzled its beak into Nerdanel’s hand. “This magnificent creature is a friend of mine. I told you of Godspeed, did I not? Cullasseth is its founder and leader. I prefer to fight with the infantry, but I’ve ridden with her on occasion. This, Fëanáro, was my partner on those occasions. Would you like to see the world from the back of an eagle? He is willing to carry you.”

The great bird turned regally and cast a penetrating gaze on me. I had the absurd inclination to make a bow.

“I thought the eagles obeyed only Manwë.” I raised a cautious hand to brush the glossy neck feathers. They were softer than any silk sold in Tirion.

"The eagles _obey_ no one,” Nerdanel said firmly. “They _choose_ who they bear. My partner has consented to take us for a flight. Shall we oblige him? It would be a beautiful chance for you to touch the lights of heaven.”

As if understanding her words, the eagle crouched to allow Nerdanel to climb up. She did so, and offered me an expectant hand in return. I did not move. The beak and talons made me wary.

“Istyë, this creature associates with Manwë –”

“–and so you do not trust him? If that’s the case, Fëanáro, that is the most childish thing I’ve ever heard. This eagle will not let you fall. Come, give me your hand.”

Her beautiful, daring smile was irresistible. Glancing once more at the bird’s uncannily perceptive eyes, I took my wife’s hand and swung onto the feathered back.

"Hold tight,” said Nerdanel. She hardly had to tell me. My arms closed around her waist before she could finish her sentence.

“Just know,” I began, “that I prefer to keep my feet firmly on the –”

At that moment, the eagle threw its wings wide and screamed in a voice that reverberated in the valley blow. I could feel powerful muscles shifting beneath me as the bird stepped to the edge of the cliffs and dropped into the air.

When Maitimo and Macalaurë were still children, I took it into my mind to scale Taniquetil. I loved to seek the limits of my own endurance, and the Mountain posed the most exquisite challenge of all. I accepted, and I conquered, though I nearly died in the attempt. Near the peak, the air grew so thin and cold that I could scarcely move. It took all my strength to drag myself over the last ledge and crawl to the doors of Ilmarin. By the time I collapsed on the floor of Lord Manwë’s throne room, it felt as though there was no breath in my lungs.

The same feeling returned to me as the eagle plummeted downward. My heart was in my mouth and my skin buzzing with adrenaline when at last the eagle threw its wings open again. With a jerk that would have unseated me if not for my grip on Nerdanel, the bird caught a rising column of air and began to glide.

“Open your eyes, my foolish love,” came Nerdanel’s voice. “You ought to see this.”

Until then, I had not realized that I had screwed my eyes shut. Slightly ashamed, I inched my eyes open and willed my lungs to take in air.

What I saw nearly robbed me of breath all over again.

The eagle was soaring effortlessly over the valley. Below us was a vast patchwork of deep green forests and rugged paths and mysterious pools. I located our hunting lodge, a sturdy brown structure in a protective ring of trees. The tiny golden gleam of a fire burning in the yard caught my eye, and I wondered if Nolofinwë had reached home yet. The mountains of the north aspired towards the sky, stark and black against the last rays of the sun. None were nearly so high as the Pelóri, yet all were still dusted with snow.

Above us, only the heavens. Careless writers sometimes used the word “void,” but the bore no resemblance to that place of unspeakable horror. It was empty, yes, but it was _alive_. Vása was low in the west, mingling her pale rosy glow with the cornflower-blue of early evening. The first of the stars were beginning to twinkle into existence, little chips of adamant against a celestial banner. The few clouds were small and tinged with delicate pink.

The eagle sculpted the air with unrivaled ease. Nerdanel and I seemed no burden at all to the bird. Never had I felt so utterly weightless, so at one with the air. Looking down at the trees and mountains and paths and pools, I realized how vast this world was – and how small _I_ was. I was only one part of a much greater plan, drawn up by an architect of unfathomable skill. From this perspective, even the atrocities of my past seemed far away and unable to harm me.

I had a childish urge to reach up and touch a star. Nolofinwë’s words returned to me, and I cast reality aside. Raising my arm, I imagined my fingertips sending a trail of stardust fanning out behind.

“So this is what the soldiers of Godspeed see,” I murmured.

“Aye, though it looks quite different in the midst of battle.”

“Blessed are they, then, who are friends of eagles and one with the sky. And blessed am I to hold the heart of Nerdanel Istarnië Arhestë, phoenix of the Noldor.”

“Nerdanel Istarnië Arhestë, who tames the Spirit of Fire with her love.” I could not see her face, but I heard the smile in her voice.

"No, _meldanya_ , you perfect him. You give him purpose to –”

“Shh. The Spirit of Fire grants the same gifts, without cease, to his lady.”

Nerdanel turned and kissed me as tenderly as on Midsummer’s Eve. It had been ages since we had spoken such words to each other. We had forgotten, it seemed, that there is often truth in such foolishness. Nerdanel did indeed make right what was wrong within me, and I helped her to unlock her courage in turn. When she spoke of going to war _for_ me, she had also gone to war _through_ me, _because_ of me. Only together could we be all we were meant to be. We were twin flames, two sides of the same coin.

I did not know it then, but that autumn we would stand before Lord Manwë and Lady Varda and speak our wedding vows anew, formally ending our estrangement.

I felt as happy and as _right_ as on the day Nerdanel accepted my proposal of marriage. I laid my head on my wife’s shoulder and let the eagle carry us on into the night.

* * *

Full night was nearly upon us when we touched down in the yard behind the hunting lodge. I did not realize how stiff and cold I was until I fell gracelessly from the eagle’s back and into the dew-damp grass. Nerdanel slid down beside me, laughing softly, and offered me a hand. A firefly settled on the curve of her wrist as she helped me up. I circled her waist with my arm, drawing her close, and kissed her brow.

“Thank you,” I murmured into her hair. “That was wonderful.”

“I thought you’d say that,” she grinned. “You’re most welcome.” She looked back towards the warm yellow lights burning in the lodge’s windows, the brightest of which was in my father’s chambers. “Well, I think I’ll have something hot to drink and be off to bed. Come in soon, yes?”

She pressed my hand and walked back towards the house.

I stood there for a moment in the middle of the yard, looking up at the stars. After the Darkening, they seemed cold and uncaring and very far away, but now they were steady and reassuring. Fireflies drifted lazily across my field of vision; one landed on my palm.

“You are very clever, little one,” I told the blinking insect. “You carry your own light. Even with darkness before and darkness behind, you need never be afraid.”

The firefly blinked once more and fluttered off.

At that moment, I heard voices, soft and tender. One was a woman’s, tinged with the primeval hardness of Beleriand. The other was a man’s, low and rich.

Maitimo’s voice.

I froze, looking towards the porch from whence the voices came. There, faces bronzed by lantern-glow, stood my firstborn and a _nís_ who could only be Thalieth. She had clasped her hands behind Maitimo’s neck, and his arms circled her waist. Maitimo’s brow rested against Thalieth’s in a picture of serenity.

The scene was not altogether unexpected. All that summer, I had watched with pleasure as Maitimo and Thalieth revealed the depth of their relationship. Theirs was a sincere and mutual admiration, founded on shared experience. They had both suffered severe debilitations in the wars, and they had both arisen stronger for it. Maitimo regained his hand when he was reborn, but he never forgot what it was like to live without it. Thalieth, with her light-sensitive eyes, understood this loss. Often she asked Maitimo to describe a scene for her, so that his words and her heightened perception might reveal what her eyes could not.

True friends did not come easily to Maitimo. Many sought him out for his handsomeness and political standing, but Thalieth matched him perfectly. Like Nelyo, she was extraordinarily brave with a lovely sense of humor, and not at all inclined to dwell in the past. She lived vibrantly and cherished every moment. She delighted in small things, like the smell of old books and the sound of rain on a wooden roof.

I was truly happy for them. They were _fëavéla_ , alike in spirit.

Maitimo bent to kiss Thalieth’s hand with a gentleness that made my heart ache. They held each other silently for a long moment, then walked into the house hand in hand.

I watched them go with a curious mix of emotions lodged in my throat. A part of me envied Thalieth for understanding Maitimo so well. His family should understand him best, not a stranger from across the sea. But, I reminded myself, Thalieth was not a stranger to Nelyo or to Nerdanel or to the rest of our sons. They had known her for ages, either through the Vanguard or Formenos’s war council. I was the true stranger.

Well, I would be happy if Maitimo was happy. Eru knew he deserved it.

* * *

One other important event took place that summer: my formal reinstatement, delayed by Turindo’s treason. Atar thought it prudent to perform the ceremony in Formenos, in the presence of my loyal allies. He knew I was not eager to try my luck in Tirion a second time.

I had no great love for ceremonies, but this one was significant for Noldorin stability. Once I pledged my duty in the sight of the Valar, none could contest my right to the throne when Atar stepped down. Thus, we packed up the finest formal garments we had on hand and rode out from the hunting lodge. A day later, we returned to Formenos amidst much rejoicing.

The people had erected a wooden platform in the square, high enough to be seen from afar and draped with banners of scarlet and gold. I ought to have expected a crowd, yet still my mouth went dry when I saw that the whole city seemed to have turned up, along with a much of Tirion. The square was a veritable sea of red and gold and glittering Fëanárian stars. Waves of excited sound rolled back and forth across the gathered throng. It struck me suddenly that I might have to address them all once I took my vows, and I had nothing prepared.

I sat on Atar’s right: my due place as his heir. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë sat on the platform as well, along with Írimë and Findis, to my surprise. Írimë was radiant as always, black hair framing her Vanyarin blue eyes and a smile as warm as a hearth. Findis was the very image of her mother, tall and golden-haired and fair. As always, her calm demeanor was unshakable. Even as a child, nothing could ruffle her (Nolofinwë had nicknamed her Helcatári). I suspected that she would not have blinked had a horde of trolls charged into the square at that moment. She glanced at me as I took my seat and offered me a smile that, while it held none of Írimë’s warmth, was not grudging. I returned the gesture, wondering what she had been through in the days after the Darkening.

My greatest shock came when I glanced down to the opposite end of the platform and saw none other than Lord Manwë and Lady Varda themselves. They were majestic, the Elder King in robes of cobalt and gold and the Kindler in a pale blue gown trimmed with crystal. Her silver hair, more silver than my mother’s, was set with a diamond diadem I only wished I had made.

Though his ageless eyes were kind, I could not look at Lord Manwë without remembering how he sentenced me to twelve years of exile, superseding my father’s authority and humiliating me before my people. And then, of course, there was the matter of Moringotto’s trial, where he released a monster into the world. My face grew hot at the mere thought of it. I could set aside my exile, but not Moringotto’s freedom.

As the Elder King and his lady looked upon me with their penetrating, crystal-blue eyes, I suspected they both knew this.

Atar, who had sensed my discomfort, murmured, “They come to bear witness to your pledge. They will pass no judgment upon you.”

With that, he rose gracefully to his feet and lifted a hand. At once, the low roar in the square fell silent. The soldiers in the crowd, I noticed, held their right hands over their hearts: the index and little fingers extended and the middle two curled over the palm. It reminded me of horns, perhaps a Valarauko’s. I wondered if this might be some sort of salute instituted after my death. It seemed odd to invoke the enemy that slew their king, but the Fëanárians (particularly the Fëanárians of Formenos) always were a strange lot.

Atar’s voice carried effortlessly as he began his remarks. “My friends, this is a day of joy. It has been too long delayed, yet now that it has come at last, we shall celebrate with greater gladness. We are gathered today to hear and witness the vows of Curufinwë Fëanáro, my beloved firstborn, returned to us by the grace of Eru to take his place once more as High Prince of the Noldor. The high prince’s role is one of great power and great responsibility. It requires servitude, patience, and compassion. Thus, to ensure that my firstborn is worthy to bear such a burden, he shall pledge his duty before his royal siblings and you the people, in the sight of Lord Manwë and Lady Varda.”

The square was so silent by now that we might have heard someone drop a coin. I stood shakily, more nervous than I had ever been in the presence of a crowd. I turned to face the people and raised my right hand.

“Do you, Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion,” Atar began, “pledge to uphold the integrity of your high office, to set aside all selfish interests, and to use your power only for the good of the Noldor?”

“I do.” My voice was strangely weak. I gave myself a mental shake.

"Do you pledge to serve the Noldor with kindness and justice, to act upon their concerns as if they were your own, and to grant your duty to rich and poor alike?”

“I do,” I said again, stronger this time.

“And do you pledge to keep the Noldor from harm, and to abdicate your position at once should your actions do them ill?”

I had made that promise to myself over and over again on the night of my return to the living world. Far sooner would I see one of my half-siblings on the throne than drag the people into darkness again.

“I do,” I answered for the third time, perhaps more fiercely than I should have.

Atar’s face was unreadable as he turned to my half-brothers and half-sisters. “Princess Findis, Prince Nolofinwë, Prince Arafinwë, and Princess Írimë,” he began, “I would ask you to reflect upon your brother. If you find any insincerity or malice in him, speak now.”

For one sickening moment, I was terrified that one of them would stand and denounce me as a madman and a traitor. But they only gazed steadily at me, Findis perhaps too long.

Their silence was the ceremonial seal of approval. Lord Manwë rose and beckoned me forward. I came, careful to keep my face expressionless even as old wounds reopened. I took his hand and knelt so that I would not have to meet his gaze as he anointed my forehead with pine-scented oil.

“Your vows are heard and witnessed.” His voice, as beautiful as I remembered, held a trace of sorrow that roused my anger. I did not want his pity. “Rise, Curufinwë Fëanáro, High Prince of the Noldor, with our blessing.”

I was forced to look him in the eyes then. Much as I wanted to go on nursing my anger, the kindness and ancient grief in his face was such that I could not do so. I knew what it was to bear the guilt of ages. There we had common ground.

Lady Varda addressed me then in a voice like the clear ringing of bells. “We have a gift for you, Finwion, to celebrate your return to life.”

She gave an unexpected whistle. Out of the sky came the most beautiful bird I had ever seen: a snow-white gyrfalcon speckled with black, its eyes piercingly keen. To my great astonishment, the bird settled itself primly on my arm.

"His name is Artasúlë,” Lady Varda went on. She watched with a smile as I stroked the bird’s head. “He is perfectly trained, and he will serve you well as a hunter, scout, or messenger. Treat him kindly, and I do believe you will find him a worthy partner indeed.”

The gyr nipped my ear affectionately. I remembered Nerdanel’s eagle, and I sensed the same intellect in the falcon on my arm.

"You are very much a beauty, aren’t you?” I murmured. This elicited a proud rustle of wings. I could only imagine the hunts my sons and I would have with Artasúlë at my side.

Very much aware that my every move was being watched, I made the Valar a bow. “You have my thanks, my lord and lady.”

With that, I turned to the people and raised a hand.

As one, Artasúlë screamed and the Noldor erupted in cheers. Atar smiled at me with pride and love in his eyes, and even Findis nodded her approval. Laughter bubbled from my lips as I realized I had rarely felt such a sense of belonging.

Lady Varda gently kissed my brow. “Welcome home, Finwion.”

“Aye, indeed,” echoed her lord husband. In that moment, I was too swept up in my people’s joy to remember my grudge against him. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meldanya – my love/my beloved.
> 
> We all know Taniquetil is probably too high for a human to climb without supplemental oxygen, but Fëanáro is an elf, and an extraordinary one at that, so we’ll make an exception.
> 
> Helcatári – Ice Queen.
> 
> Artasúlë – “High/Noble Wind.”


	21. Memorial

Formenos celebrated my reinstatement far longer than necessary. It rather embarrassed me, to be perfectly honest, but I could hardly deny the people their revelry. Between my rebirth and Curufinwë's - the last of my sons to leave Mandos - the Formenos folk had precious little to celebrate.

I repaid their fealty with my most precious commodity: time. I attended social gatherings, I advised the apprentice blacksmiths, I held lively sessions with bright young loremasters-in-training – and I enjoyed myself immensely. What, after all, was unenjoyable about a contest to see who could pronounce the longest Valarin word without stumbling?

By then, it was harvest time. Formenos's arid soil and changeable climate were not favorable for crops, which made each yield all the more important. The people started work in their fields and terraces early each morning, and their work songs went on late into the night. Everyone in the city had a role to play, even the children, who ran here and there bringing the laborers food and drink. There was always laughter, always music, and always dancing. Fiddlers played from every corner, Nerdanel among them. It surprised me to discover how talented she was. Most often she played the lively folk dances so beloved of the Noldor, but when she turned her hand to a slower piece, she set an ache in all our hearts.

It was custom in Formenos to end each day with a hymn to Varda. The city folk had no great love for the Valar, but they still revered the Kindler, whose lights alone withstood the Darkening. Usually the Formenos brass, led this hymn, but sometimes Nerdanel took the lead. The laborers around her laid down their sickles and hoes to listen. For a few moments, the world dissolved into the sweet, vibrating notes of her violin's low register. It was enough to move even the most stoic among us.

All too soon, it came time for us to return to Tirion. Though I could have lingered among the Formenos folk forever, it was impossible. Queen Indis and Lord Nólaheru had been governing the Noldor my father's absence. The two held radically different political views, and without Atar to balance them, I feared what might become of my always-volatile people. There was one more thing to do before our departure, however.

I learned of this event a few days in advance, when Atar drew me aside and bade me take a cup of tea on the back porch. It was a lovely afternoon, warm for early autumn. I took a childlike delight in the red and gold of the leaves. I knew by then that there were seasons of warm and cold in this world without the Trees, but that first year was extraordinary.

“I thought it might distress you to see the leaves dying and the land preparing to sleep,” Atar mused.

“It would, did I not know that all will be reborn in the spring.” I smiled as I watched a squirrel bury an acorn and pat down the dirt. “To everything there is a season. The land sleeps and the land wakes, just as Rána wanes and waxes again. The Eldar are much the same. Life and death come in cycles for all things.”

“So it does. The Lómë Neldë Calmaiva pays tribute to that cycle each year.”

I tasted the unfamiliar tongue on my tongue. Lómë Neldë Calmaiva, the night of three lamps, or three lights… The words were beautiful, but I sensed a taint of sorrow.

“Is that a feast of some sort?” I asked.

Atar appeared mildly startled. “Did Macalaurë not tell you? He said you practiced the funeral song together.”

“Aye, we did, but what has it to do with this?”

And then, I remembered Macalaurë’s strange reluctance to tell me why he wished to hear me sing Atar’s funeral dirge. Suddenly, I was suspicious that the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva, whatever it was, might be the reason.

“Oh, Curufinwë, do you really not know?” There was pity in Atar’s face now. That he used my _ataressë_ suggested something very grave indeed, for he knew it was my _amilessë_ I preferred. “Well, I have no choice but to tell you. The Lómë Neldë Calmaiva is an annual festival held in Formenos on the anniversary of the Darkening. The people build three pyres in the great square, and they light each one as they sing the night’s laments. The music always begins with my funeral song, sung first by the chief mourner and then by the gathered assembly. It always ends with a song of hope for a more peaceful future. Really, it’s quite battle. Nowhere else save on the battlefield will you witness such a triumph of courage over grief.”

I released the breath I had not known I was holding. It would hurt me to relive the night of my father’s death, but I could manage if I did not have to stay too long. I would do my duty to Atar and slip away again as soon as I could. If luck was with me, I could lose myself in the gathered crowd before I had to speak to anyone.

Atar eyed me. “As my heir, you will be expected to attend,” he said hesitantly. “Are you at peace with this?”

“Well, it isn’t my idea of a pleasant evening, but for our people, I shall endure it. Perhaps the music will do me some good. It is said that nothing purges sorrow like Exilic singing.”

My acceptance did not set Atar at ease. When next he spoke, he did so softly, as if he feared my tranquility would shatter at any moment.

“Curufinwë, the role of chief mourner falls to the eldest of my children. Now that you have been reborn, it is your duty. You must light the first pyre and lead the people in the funeral song.”

I lost my breath as surely as if I had fallen from a galloping horse.

_No. This you cannot make me do. I laid you to rest once, and it destroyed me. Do not ask me to do it again._

I could feel panic working its way up into my throat like bile. Two instincts, _deny_ and _flee,_ swept all rational thought from my mind. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I knew neither option would serve me well, but I was sorely tempted to take my chances.

I had a childish impulse to hurl something hateful at Atar and run from the room. _You promised you would never leave me, yet you forsook me the moment you raised your blade against Moringotto._ That would do.

The dragon coiled around my heart reared up, poised to breathe fire.

But then Nolofinwë’s voice filled my thoughts, steady and reassuring. I recalled our conversation at the waterfall, his insistence that I must live in the present if I was to live at all. Seen through his eyes, the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva presented the perfect opportunity to burn my past self on the pyre. It would be difficult, surely, but might it also help me heal?

Would it be worth the struggle?

I knew Nolofinwë was right about one thing at least: I could not fall falling into despair every time the past reared its head. Had I not come to Formenos, the place of my nightmares, to lay those ghosts to rest? Had I not had this conversation with my family a hundred times before? Was I still hesitant to act?

What held me back from true rebirth: my past, or myself?

Yes, it would take all my strength to relive my father’s funeral and the events that led to it. But I had had enough of grief dogging my every footstep. I had had enough of tears and guilt and shame. And I alone could let them go.

The past was in the past. It was time to let it burn.

“Curufinwë? Are you well?”

Belatedly, I realized I was clutching the edge of the wicker table so tightly that the wood had left deep imprints on my palms.

“I am, actually,” I told him. I felt full of a resolve I had not known since my rebellion. “Lighting that pyre can only help me. Once I do that, the Fëanáro-that-was shall learn what he ought to have learned long ago: that he is dead, and I live.”

Atar looked faintly concerned, as though he suspected madness to have taken root in me once more. Then after a moment, he grasped my meaning.

“Well-spoken, _yonya_. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Answer me but one more thing,” I went on. “The name ‘Lómë Neldë Calmaiva…’ Are the three lights the Silmarilli?”

A curious gleam came into Atar’s eyes. “No, child. The name refers to you and your brothers, the three princes who led the Noldor through the greatest calamity of our land. Arafinwë’s light was stability; Nolofinwë’s, endurance; and yours…”

 _…was death_ , said a bitter voice in my mind. I forced it into silence.

“What?” I asked, struggling against biting sarcasm. “What light did I bring to the Noldor?”

Atar laid a hand alongside my cheek.

“Your light was purpose.”

* * *

The Lómë Neldë Calmaiva was everything Atar said it would be, and more.

That morning, the watchers on the walls exchanged their scarlet-and-gold banners for dark ones. The first mourners appeared in the square as the sun began to sink. They came slowly, silently, hoods over their faces, dressed in outer garments of black with deep violet robes beneath. Each one carried a taper or a lantern. There were no lampstones to be seen, only wax candles. The flickering flames burned like eyes in the dark, throwing shifting, breathing shadows. It was more than a little eerie.

By nightfall, a silent throng stood around the largest of the three pyres in the square. Into this multitude I came, dressed in black and unadorned. My half-siblings walked behind me, each carrying wrought-iron lanterns of their own. There was nothing delicate about these. They were relics of the Darkening: sturdy, practical, and unlovely. In contrast, I held a torch, a beautiful ornate thing carven with Atar’s sixteen-pointed star. The wood came from Lord Námo’s gardens, I was told, and no matter how long it burned, it would not be consumed.

A drumbeat issued from somewhere on the walls, a solemn cadence to accompany the funeral song. The people parted with a rustle of fabric as I reached them. Their hoods concealed their faces, and that was just as well, for I could look none of them in the eyes. If I did, I would remember the night I stood before them and swore my Oath, a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. The people had not forgotten, either: the Formenos coat of arms bore a crossed sword and torch with a Fëanárian star between.

The air seemed too thick with guilt and sorrow to breathe as I reached the pyre. I knelt, resting the base of the torch against the flagstones. A moment later, my half-siblings did the same, and the people followed as one. The drumbeat went on: welcome because it relieved the oppressive silence, and maddening because it drove me towards a precipice.

I struggled with myself for some time. More than once I opened my mouth to sing, but no sound would come. I knew the pyre was empty, yet I could see Atar’s lifeless body upon it. I recalled the pain of that longest night: my chest was so tight I could scarcely breathe, biting my lip so hard that I drew blood. The histories said I had delivered Atar’s eulogy, but in truth my voice deserted me. Lord Nólaheru had to speak in my place.

Yet I had promised myself that this time would be different. I had to try.

The flames of my torch warmed my face, evoking age-old memories. I thought of Alqualondë and Losgar and the Valaraukar, but I also thought of the candelabra that sustained my spirit in Mandos and the infinite Love of my judgment, fire in its purest form. The heat kissed my cheeks and drove away the tightness in my throat.

The last time I held a torch was to swear an oath. It only seemed appropriate to do the same now. I made a new vow to my past self:

_You are dead, Fëanáro Kinslayer. Tonight, the requiem is yours._

Perhaps I needed madness to sustain me in the wake of my father’s death. I needed to be mad before I could be strong, because my own fortitude was not enough to face Atar’s loss. Well, I had faced it in the Void, and many other things besides, and I had endured it all and come to rebirth. I needed madness as my shield no longer. The Fëanáro-that-was had no more reason to exist.

I swallowed hard and began the funeral song.

Never before save in the Void had I felt so exposed and vulnerable, nor so aware of my people’s eyes upon me. Crowds had never frightened me; indeed, I enjoyed seeing them come alive with the power of my words. Yet now, my voice was small and afraid, accompanied only by that frozen cadence that stood for death and death alone.

And suddenly, I hated it. I hated the death-knell that lingered in my heart long after my father’s funeral ended. It had pursued me across the ages unto this very moment.

It was long past time I silenced it.

With that thought, my voice grew stronger. The burning grief within me transmuted into a different sort of flame, the sort that cauterizes. I would bear my scars forever, but that did not mean the cuts must continue to bleed.

I touched the beginnings of my upper register with a strength I scarcely recognized as mine and concluded the lament. The words I sang dated to the time of the Darkening, but from there they had echoed across the ages to serve as a final salute for kings of elves and dwarves and men alike:

“ _Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended;_

_Over death, over dread, over doom lifted_

_Out of loss, out of life, unto long glory._ ”

The drumbeat shifted, a signal for the gathered assembly to lift their voices and repeat the song. No matter the occasion, there is an incredible power in mingled voices. I felt something akin to a chill run through my body, only it left me warm. The sound swelled as the buildings cast it back to us greater than ever; then it devoured the silence and filled it not with sorrow but with pride. What began as a song of grief became something else entirely: a promise that when Moringotto returned, the lamenting would be _his_.

The last notes melded seamlessly into Andion’s trumpet salute. I knew her to be an excellent musician, but she played more beautifully than ever that night. Her sound rang effortlessly across the square, strong and warm. There was a gentle quaver of emotion to each of the notes. Andion was too young to remember much of the Darkening, but it did not matter. The events of that night were burned into the hearts of all Noldor. The grief was hereditary, passed down through the generations, never dying, only sleeping. Whether we were there that night or not, we all shared the sorrow.

As Andion’s solemn music filled the square, Vanguard soldiers stepped out from the throng. They were clad all in black, their hair loose and unadorned, delicate Fëanárian stars resting at their necks. Among them, I noticed, was Senindë. She was pale in the torchlight but serene as ever.

Each of the _nissi_ unfurled a dark banner bearing my father’s star, unembellished. Then, in time with the trumpet and the burial drums, they began a slow, hypnotic dance. They wove amongst each other with utmost precision, grace replaced by military crispness. Their banners rose and fell in a pattern which, I was told, signified the death of a great lord. My eyes met Senindë’s for a moment, and I saw a soft but steadfast flame in her face. There was something comforting in her refusal to make any concessions to death.

My time had come. I stood, keenly aware of my people’s eyes upon me, and walked to the pyre. Lowering my torch to the base, I traced a slow circle around the piled wood until it was wreathed in flames. Then I returned to my place between Nolofinwë and Maitimo and watched it burn. This time it was not my father’s body but my own bloodstained _hröa_ I saw catch fire and fall to ash, a kinslayer’s corpse now purified at last.

I felt a shadow depart from me. My breath went out in a shuddering sigh, and Nolofinwë put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you well?” he murmured.

Truthfully, I did not feel at all well. My emotions had left me physically exhausted, and my hands were trembling, white-knuckled, on my torch. Yet in the same moment, I sensed that a wound that had bled for far too long was finally beginning to heal. I tipped my head back and watched my breath drift up as smoke to the stars, imagining that all my sin went with it.

“No, but I believe I'm on the right path,” I told Nolofinwë. At last I found the strength to smile.

* * *

What remained of the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva was a blur. I remembered little of the many songs, save for a vague impression that all were beautiful. Musicians from Formenos and some from Tirion offered tributes to my father, including a haunting ensemble led by Rhavloth Cullasseth. When she lowered her reedpipes, there was not a single dry eye in the square.

The best came last, when Macalaurë led a performance of the song cycle he had written for Atar’s funeral ages ago. I concluded that the Ainulindalë itself could not possibly be more exquisite. The cycle was a perfect balance of sorrow and reverence such as only my secondborn could achieve. The final movement was so utterly gentle in its call to rest that even I felt peace come over me. The last pyre in the square was lit as the notes trailed away, and the fire filled me with hope rather than despair.

There were many prayers that night, for many things and many people, some spoken aloud and others in the silent language of the heart. Each time, the offerer laid a taper at the base of the first pyre beside my ceremonial torch. The last candle was Atar’s, conferring his blessing upon the Noldor and all the Children of Eru, completing the arc of little lights on the flagstones. It was a beautiful sight, as if the pyre were the center of a fiery flower.

And then, out of the silence, there arose a single voice: Írimë’s. Her singing was low and rich, quite in contrast to her speech. She did not seem at all uncomfortable with the silence that surrounded her. Standing there with her eyes closed, swaying gently, she wove a melody that embraced us all. She sang first of the helpless silence of the heart, bereft of words to express its grief, but the verse closed with a promise that music speaks where words fail. As she sang her voice wrapped around us like a warm cloak.

There was a pause, and then at once, the square filled with a soft, lush harmony as every voice joined as one. The music pulsed in time with the flickering candlelight. The words addressed a friend, asking comfort through a lullaby, passion through a love song, and peace through a requiem. “ _Sing me to Atar_ ,” the verse concluded with high, poignant notes.

It was not difficult to guess that “Atar” was Eru Ilúvatar. By the time the last glittering, unresolved chord disappeared into the night, many of the people were holding hands. Some leaned lightly upon their neighbors, and it did not seem to matter whether they knew each other or not. In that moment, we were all bound by shared sorrow and shared determination.

It struck me then that loyalty meant something different to Fëanárians. It transcended words, transcended even emotion. To my people, loyalty was synonymous with love. It signified an outpouring of heart and mind and soul, a complete and utter giving of oneself to another. This, I realized, was what the people of Formenos promised to me: not only their words or their deeds, but _themselves._

This latest revelation changed my view of Formenos entirely. Gone were my memories of cold winds and cold rooms and cold hands that would not stop shaking. This summer, spent with people more fiercely devoted to me than I had thought possible, had swept all else away. For that I was forever grateful.

Nolofinwë laced his arm through mine and pressed my hand in fellowship. For the first time in my two lives, I welcomed the gesture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finwë’s funeral song borrows lyrics from the Burial Song of Théoden. [Here is the Tolkien Ensemble's beautiful interpretation of it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSEZnle4I2c)
> 
> Macalaurë’s song cycle was inspired by Johannes Brahms’ German Requiem. [This is a playlist of the full piece.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0VaC9EZZ8w&list=OLAK5uy_neq6KiSdC15Do8FIsQHtAkIHzrNDup5D8)
> 
> Írimë’s song of hope is inspired by Daniel Gawthrop’s “Sing Me to Heaven,” a gorgeous choral piece. [ Here's my favorite recording.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIWPkV48rtQ)


	22. Guardian

A very different sort of ritual followed the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva. From what I gathered, it was a celebration of my rebellion. The participants rode through the wild black woods of Formenos, firing burning arrows at targets along the way. Some of these commemorated great Noldorin victories; others resembled our most hated enemies. I was told that the archer who shot Gothmog’s effigy through the heart would receive high honors for the rest of the year. Critics of the Noldor referred to this feast as Devil’s Night, but among the Noldor themselves gave it no name. For my people, there were no words with the power to describe what the rebellion meant to them.

I had no desire to take part. No doubt I disappointed many people when I told them so, but it was the truth. Confronting my father’s death was quite enough for one night; I had not the strength to face my rebellion as well. Beyond that, I did not understand why my folk would celebrate that which brought them naught but ruin and death. I saw no reason to rejoice.

I had intended to travel back to the hunting lodge, but Nolofinwë pointed out quite correctly that I was on the point of collapse. I was likely to have some fatal accident on the dark roads if I tried to ride, so he insisted on escorting me back to my family’s house in the square instead. He also refused to leave until he saw ensconced in my bedroom window seat with a mug of spiced wine.

“Sleep in bed, not in the window,” he warned me by way of farewell.

“How you do carry on!” I mocked him gently. “Small wonder you became a father. I do believe you enjoy fussing this way. Well, I am not a child!”

My half-brother was unruffled. “I know you. You sleep wherever you happen to collapse, and that will do you no good. Where would you be without us to look after you?”

“Oh, dead three times over by now, I’m sure.”

Nolofinwë’s posture was disapproving, but his countenance was gentle. “Get some rest, Fëanáro.”

“Goodnight, Nolofinwë.”

I rested my head against the windowpane, listening to my half-brother’s footsteps recede into the corridor. Then, just as I had decided that the cold glass did not make the best pillow, I heard voices. One was Nolofinwë’s, and the other was Cullasseth’s. She had been at my side constantly in the weeks before my death, and her speech was unmistakable to me.

“Will you be riding with my brother’s loyalists tonight?” Nolofinwë was asking in Cullasseth’s native Mithrim Sindarin.

“Indeed I am.” I could hear the smile in my old friend’s voice. “I wished to see Faenor before I go.”

“That may do him good.”

“I promise not to keep him up too late.”

In another moment, Cullasseth had crossed to my window and settled herself on the floor beside me. She rested her hand on my knee, looking up at me with a gentle smile. She was still clad in her dark mourning garments, but her long curls were bound up at the back of her neck now, and her precious eagle crossbow lay at her side.

“You played beautifully tonight,” I told her.

“My pleasure. I came to see how you were faring. Are you certain you won't join us tonight?”

“I am. Even if I could comprehend why you all see fit to celebrate a failed rebellion, I am much too tired.”

“In many ways, it didn't fail,” said Cullasseth without a moment’s hesitation. “Your war gave purpose and strength to a great many people in their hour of need. It's because of your war that we are ready now to face the Last Battle. That's what we celebrate.”

“Is Nerdanel riding with you?”

“Of course.”

“My war took her sons from her, one by one. What cause has she to rejoice?”

“She honors her children’s heroism.”

I lay my hand over hers, shaking my head. “You see the good in all, dear friend.”

“I do. I try to help others see the good in themselves as well. ‘Tis how I brought your Maglor home.”

“Is it?” I remembered Cullasseth suggesting, on the night of our reunion, that she knew my secondborn quite well, but she had never explained. “I should like to hear.”

An infinitely warm, affectionate light kindled in Cullasseth’s eyes. “I did indeed promise you the tale. Very well, then. I shall try not to speak overmuch; I know you’ve been under a great deal of strain tonight.”

My old friend began her tale, her Sindarin words transporting me back to the wilds of Beleriand.

“I met your son when I met you, of course. I was young and reckless, and I loved the wildness in you all. For a time, I thought I ought to have been born a Noldo. My people didn't seem to have battle in their blood as you did – as I did. I was more comfortable in your camp than I ever was at home. When you were lost, and then Maedhros after you, I grieved for you both as if you were my kin.

“But dearly as I missed you, Maglor needed me. He needed me to form alliances, to teach the Golodhrim our language and how to live in our lands. I was his closest counsellor. As time went on, though, I realized we were more than allies. Maglor confided everything in me, secrets he kept from all others. He came to me when his brothers criticized him for not rescuing Maedhros. He knew I would cast no judgments. He was far from weak, of course, but it comforted him to lean on me.

“When we received word that Maedhros had been rescued, Maglor sent me to the Fingolfinian camp to lend my aid however I could. The Fingolfinian healer was a very practical Unbegotten who had treated combat wounds before, but I had a more recent knowledge of Beleriand’s medicinal plants. Most of all, I was bound and determined not to let your son slip away from me. That made me fierce.

“When word came to Maglor that I had helped save his brother, he…”

Here Cullasseth paused and bowed her head. I could not be certain, but in the pale moonlight, it looked as if a blush had crept into her cheeks.

“Well, I daresay he loved me for it.

“For a long while, I wasn't certain how I felt about him. I cherished his company and his friendship to be sure, and his protectiveness. There's something very comforting in knowing that someone wants to keep you safe, isn’t there? Well, the wars went on, and we grew closer. I traveled with him, hunted with him, even fought with him when he would allow it. I was not afraid of death, but he was very much afraid of losing me, so he forbade me to go where the fighting was hardest. At first I resented him, because all I had ever wanted to be was a soldier. But then…the Dagor Bragollach came, and Maglor’s Gap was overrun, and I…”

Cullasseth’s voice grew strained. This disturbed me, for I knew my old friend to possess a tireless optimism. What could be so terrible?

She looked up at me then with burning hate in her eyes. “I did a very foolish thing, Curufin Faenor,” she said harshly. “I did not fear death, no, but I feared capture. I feared torture. I saw it firsthand when I treated Maedhros, and I could not bear to suffer the same fate. When the Gap fell, I knew I would be taken and twisted into one of the Enemy’s servants if I was caught, so... Well, I believe I lost my mind.

“I decided I would rather die than be a slave of Angband, so I took my bow and knives and made for the field. The dragon Glaurung was circling the plains, spreading fire wherever he went. It was not long before he spotted me. I had vowed to die on my feet, so I challenged him. I stood before him and dared him to do his worst. He did. It was very quick. And so I died just as you had, my first friend among the Golodhrim, standing alone against impossible odds.”

“Eru, Cullasseth, did you learn nothing from my death?” I asked her, my voice low and hoarse.

“Of course I learned, but I saw no other path.”

I wanted to tell her that she could have fled to Himring as Macalaurë did. She would have made it, too – I had never met a finer rider – yet I knew all too well how excesses of emotion overwhelm the mind. I was in no position to judge.

“Oh, never mind all that,” said Cullasseth, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It makes no difference now I have been reborn. The dragon will die by my hand someday, I promise you.”

“How were you reborn, then?” I was eager for a more cheerful subject.

Cullasseth looked thoughtful. “Well…it was very strange. My death was strange as well, truth be told. You see, I felt so guilty for leaving Maglor that I refused to enter the Halls. The Doomsman called to me again and again, but I didn't heed him. I lingered on in this world as a houseless spirit, following behind Maglor wherever he went. I watched over him, whispered words of counsel and comfort in a language he understood only deep in his heart. I fought for him, too, like the Army of the Dead at the Pelennor, but I was alone. He couldn't see me or hear me, not in the usual way. I couldn't sing to him or play for him. I couldn't put my arms around him or hold his hand or let him rest his head on my shoulder. I was at his side every day, yet I was lonelier than ever.

“The War of Wrath began, and the War of Wrath ended. When Maedhros died, Maglor’s grief was such that I could feel it even as a lost spirit.

“And I could do nothing for him. Nothing of consequence.

“I had never been so furious with myself in all my life. I regretted nothing so much as my choice to refuse the Call, and I told the Doomsman so when he spoke to me for the last time. And then I gave him my spirit.

“I was no kinslayer, and the Lord of Mandos saw nothing wicked in my refusal of the Call. Thus, I was reborn with two specific tasks to atone for my recklessness. The first was to fight with the Vanguard in the wars of the Third Age. The second was to bring Maglor home. He had never died, and so he could not stand in judgment as the dead do. I was sent to the Gulf of Lhûn, where I was told I might find your son, and instructed to bring him to the White Towers. The Lord of Mandos was not terribly clear, but it seemed that there Maglor would be given some sort of test. If he passed, he would be cleansed and permitted to return to Valinor.”

Here Cullasseth grinned knowingly and rolled her eyes.

“Your secondborn, Curufin Faenor, is as stubborn as you are, and he clings to his guilt in much the same way. You would not believe what a trial it was for me to convince him to go to the White Towers. I understood then the nature of the task I had been set, I assure you! Time and time again, Maglor told me that he was not worthy of redemption and that he deserved to wander in regret until the world's breaking. Time and time again, I did not listen. I had refused the call of one of the great Powers; I could manage a son of Faenor.

“It took many days, but I succeeded in the end. He was terrified, mind you. But when I told him that my own redemption was at stake as well as his, he agreed to go. For my sake, but not for his, he told me, he would face the Allfather’s test. And I had never loved him more than I did in that moment. Aye, I say I loved him, and I did indeed. I love him still.

“I could not say what your son saw in the tower of Elostirion. He never told me. Even if he had, I do not think I would have understood. He said only that he had seen his Father. I could see that a terrible burden had been lifted from him. Whether it was the Oath or the weight of his own guilt, I didn't know, but I did know that now he could be free.”

Cullasseth spread her arms definitively. “And so, that was that. The Straight Road opened to us and we sailed to Valinor. We've been here ever since.”

My heart was so brimful of gratitude to my old friend that I had to compose myself before I could speak. So Cullasseth was the beacon that brought Macalaurë safely home, just as she was my light during the darkest days of my life. It was wondrous, I reflected, how these things always came in cycles.

I had always held Cullasseth in high esteem, but I did so even more now. She was a true friend to the House of Fëanáro.

And I knew just how to thank her.

“You love my son, you say?” I asked Cullasseth.

“I do.”

I believed her wholeheartedly. There was no mistaking the emotion in her voice.

“And you are very certain that Macalaurë returns your feelings?”

“I am.”

“Then, Rhavloth Cullasseth, challenger of dragons and defier of fate, if and when you and Macalaurë wish to marry, you shall have my blessing.”

Cullasseth’s smile was as warm as a hearth fire, and it set every inch of her lovely face aglow. For a moment she could only rock back and forth beside me; then she threw her arms around me and kissed both my cheeks. “Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much!” she laughed when she could speak.

“Nay, dear one. I thank you for watching over my son all these years and bringing him home to us. It would be an honor to welcome you into our family.”

Cullasseth drew back, her eyes very bright. “Then perhaps I ought to speak to Maglor, no? I've never told him how I feel."

“You can speak to him after you’ve put an arrow through Gothmog’s heart tonight, silly girl.” I clapped her on the shoulder.

“I will! I surely will!”

She kissed me once more. Then, as was her nature, she was gone as quickly as she came.

I leaned back against the wall. Maitimo had Thalieth, and now Macalaurë had Cullasseth. Both were strong, kind _nissi_ , and I had no doubt they would bring my sons great joy. Now they might both begin to free themselves from the shadows of their past.

The darkness deepened around me. As I looked to the woods, I saw the riders’ targets blaze to life one by one: a chain of fire binding past, present, and future in the best possible way.

* * *

Exhausted as I was, my heart was too full for sleep. I took my mug of spiced wine and sought out my father, who was watching the beacons come alight from his own window. When he saw me, he tucked his arm around my shoulders and drew me close.

“Do you think Cullasseth hit Gothmog’s effigy?” I asked.

“No doubt Tyelkormo did everything he could to stop her, but I believe our extraordinary Sinda won out. We’ll know before morning.”

“Extraordinary,” I repeated softly. “Aye, she is that.”

“Your wife would call her reckless, but even she can't deny that there was never a fiercer friend.”

I nodded in mute agreement.

“How are you feeling, my dear child?” Atar asked after a long moment of companionable silence.

“Tired, Atar.”

“But you survived your first Lómë Neldë Calmaiva?”

“I did.” I leaned my head on his shoulder, reveling in the warmth and solidity I would never take for granted again. “It was a struggle, but my heart is lighter for it. My former self is… Well, not quite gone, but far weaker than he was before tonight.”

“And I have at last reborn, in your mind? You grieve no more for me?”

“You are alive, and you will stay that way.”

“I certainly will if your wife has any say. Well then, Curufinwë, I would say it was a very successful night for you. You sing rather well.”

“Don’t let Macalaurë hear you say that. I don’t want him going off and giving me a principal role in the symphony he wrote this summer. I am not a singer, do you hear? I will gladly speak before the people, but I won't sing for them unless I must.”

My words held no real sting. In truth, I would be deeply honored to perform one of Macalaurë's magnificent works. A solo part would of course terrify me, but for his sake, I would do it.

“Hm.” Atar eyed me critically. “You look pale, dearest one. You ought to sleep.”

“So Nolofinwë told me an hour ago. I meant to sleep, but Cullasseth came to see me…” I trailed off. Cullasseth and Macalaurë could make their announcement when they were ready. Besides that, I suspected Atar knew more of their relationship than I had. Atar seemed to know almost everything that went on in our family. “Well, you know how she talks. She and Írimë are two of a kind.”

“Ah, so it was Cullasseth who kept you up so late?”

“Aye, but don’t blame her. Her company is soothing.”

“She has ever and always been a friend to your family. I wish you could have heard the way she talked about you before you were reborn. It seems you were more of a father to her in the brief time you knew her than the father of her blood.”

 _And she may indeed be my daughter in time_ , I thought, smiling against Atar’s shoulder.

“She does me great honor,” I said warmly. “Rhavloth Cullasseth is a beautiful soul.”

“Don't think so poorly of your own soul, _yonya_.” Atar drew me into an embrace and kissed my brow. “Now, to bed with you.”

I returned to my room shortly afterward, thanking Eru that Atar was taller than I. I could tuck my head beneath his chin and listen to his heartbeat, an affirmation of life more soothing than any words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golodhrim – the Sindarin name for the Noldor


	23. Alqualondë

On the morning after the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva, the great square of Formenos was like a graveyard. Bits of wax from tapers that had burned out in the night littered the cobblestones and filled cracks in the street. The three great pyres, which had but recently seemed insurmountable obstacles, were reduced to gray ash. The Formenos folk would not clean any of it away, I knew. To them, the ashes and the wax were like the remains of the dead: not to be disturbed. They would be scattered by wind and water until they returned to the earth from whence they came.

I paused before what remained of the largest pyre, my arms folded tight against the chill morning mist. In those ashes was all that remained of my former self: the oath-maker, the kinslayer, the madman. Bowing my head, I prayed that no ghost would arise to torment me.

Yes, it was indeed a graveyard, I thought, a graveyard of memories.

Shortly thereafter, we returned to the hunting lodge and began preparing to go home. None of us were eager to see the royal city of Tirion again, with all its backbiting drama. Still, I felt I could face it now. My attitude had changed vastly over the summer months. Not so long ago, a cruel remark on my past would have driven me from the room in despair. Now that past was dead: I had burned it to ashes myself. Cruel remarks would still sting, but they would not break me.

My newfound optimism was sorely tested, however, when the letter arrived.

It happened on our last afternoon at the hunting lodge. It was a particularly fine day, and Nerdanel and I were luxuriating in our final moments of freedom, dozing on the living room rug in the autumn sunlight. We spoke little, for there was little to say. We were content with each other's company. Since my return from Mandos, I had treasured even the smallest displays of affection. At that moment, I was reveling in the gentle pressure of Nerdanel's head on my chest.

"Do you think it a sin to do nothing?" I asked her idly, toying with one of her copper curls.

"No indeed, I think it a virtue," said my lady. "The world moves so quickly these days, far quicker than it did when we were young. We would all do well to step away from it now and again and rest our minds and bodies." She turned over onto her elbows so that she could see my face and kissed me gently. "Remember that, my love. Far too often you work yourself to exhaustion."

"But I do so enjoy my work, Istyë."

"I only wish you would not enjoy it to the exclusion of food and rest."

I was considering a playful retort when I heard a sudden tapping on the window, accompanied by a jingling bell. I recognized the sound: messenger birds often wore bells on their legs to herald their coming. Even so, I could not think who might be writing to me. Senindë and my half-siblings were all on their way home. No doubt they were too occupied with travel to be sending any letters.

Nerdanel sat up and squinted against the bright sunlight. "Whoever could that be?"

"I've no idea," I mused as I got to my feet and slid open one of the windows. A sturdy falcon, red and brown and speckled with white, hopped onto the sill and held out its leg. "Hello there, beauty," I murmured as I extended an arm for the bird to perch on while I took the scroll from its leg. "You must be tired from your journey. You know, Artasúlë caught a rather plump vole today. I am sure he would be willing to share with you. He should be in back of the house."

The falcon nipped my fingers gently in thanks, hopped back onto the windowsill, and flew off.

Nerdanel was smiling as I turned back to her, letter in hand. "You've always had such a nice way with animals. Tyelkormo takes after you."

"You do yourself a disservice, Istyë. I never knew anyone who could handle cats like y –"

I stopped short. The scroll was tied with blue and white ribbons and pinned with a delicate silver swan.

A strange tingling spread through me, much like a rush of adrenaline but cold and dizzying. I became sickeningly aware of every beat of my heart, every pulse of blood through my veins. All summer I had known this would happen, but I had done my best to deny it. Well, it had happened now: the proof of that sat innocently in my hand. Just when I thought I had faced the greatest challenge on my road to healing, a greater one had arisen. Undoubtedly, the letter had everything to do with my conference with Senindë. I knew it could be good news, but I felt in my bones that it was nothing of the sort.

"From Nolofinwë?" Nerdanel asked as I struggled to maintain my hold on reality. She was not standing near enough to have seen the swan.

"No." My breath caught. "From Olwë."

* * *

The letter was brief and direct, though not overtly impolite. Still, the ultimatum was clear: unless I came to Alqualondë and offered my regrets, Olwë would not reconcile with me.

Senindë, of course, had also asked that I come to Alqualondë and attend the ceremony of remembrance. But her summons was that of a sympathetic diplomat, perhaps even a friend. The summons of the Telerin king meant something very different.

I spent the rest of that day curled on my side in bed, watching the light fade from gold to gray. This accomplished nothing save for making me feel thoroughly sick. I ran up against the same wall no matter how I approached the issue. Olwë left me with no choice: the Teleri would never make peace with me if their king did not. More than that, if I did not go to Alqualondë, the Teleri would see that I was not strong enough to face my own wrongs. That was an impression I could not afford to give. This might be my one chance to prove to the folk of Alqualondë that I was not a monster. There were no two ways about it. I had to go.

I was trapped. Few things frightened me more than being trapped.

Fury briefly overtook me – at Olwë, at myself, and at everyone who had anything to do with the First Kinslaying. The anger stirred me from my lethargy, but of course, it did not change my situation. Nothing could. I was trapped as surely as I had been in the Void. Now just as then, my only chance of escape was to look my sins squarely in the face. It made little difference whether I did so in a seaside city or a place of eternal darkness.

Finally, exhausted and unproductive, I knelt down beside my bed and clasped my hands. There was only one who could help me now, only one to whom I could entrust my burden. Once, my pride might have flared at the thought of asking the Allfather for help. Now, I found it strangely comforting.

"I don't think I can bear this alone," I finished. "Please…guide me. Help me to find the right words when the time comes. If you have a purpose for me in Alqualondë…well, I'll be there."

This did not relieve my fears, but it did give me the strength to make my decision.

My family was deeply disquieted to hear why I would not be setting out for Tirion on the morrow. Atar was even a bit saddened. He Olwë were bound by ancient ties, and it troubled him that his old friend was putting me to such a test. Even so, they all knew as well as I did that there was no retreating from this. I told them that they need not come with me, but they were adamant.

We departed for Alqualondë as soon as I sent word to Olwë.

Unsurprisingly, the journey did not set me at ease. Alqualondë was nearly three times as far from Formenos as from Tirion. In that time, my stomach twisted itself into such anxious knots that I found it difficult to eat. I visualized every possible scenario, from a gracious welcome to a grisly assassination. A small voice of reason told me that the truth likely lay between the two extremes, but it was not easy to listen. It never was, not when the roaring tides of imagination so quickly drowned my logic.

To make matters worse, I lost my most trusted and beloved advisor along the way. A messenger waylaid us on the outskirts of Tirion, bearing urgent news for Atar. It seemed that unrest in Tirion had grown in his absence. Queen Indis and Lord Nólaheru, Atar's regents, were both polarizing figures with very different views of governance. As Noldóran, Atar felt it his duty to quell these tensions and set the people at ease. He would stay in Tirion.

I tried not to be angry with him. There are certain disadvantages to having a king for a father. I had known all my life that sometimes Atar had to put duty before family. Even so, I hated it, and especially now, when I needed Atar's support more than ever. I fear I was rather cold to him at the moment of our parting.

"I'll meet you in Alqualondë as soon as I can," Atar told me hesitantly. He would not meet my eyes, and I knew he could see how hurt I was.

"Don't trouble yourself," I said coolly. "My business in Alqualondë will be settled, for better or ill, long before you can see to the Noldor's petty…"

I caught Nerdanel's eye. One look affirmed just how childish I was being.

I relented and kissed Atar's hand. "I'll be fine. Ride safely."

I wanted my half-brothers with me, and what a new sensation that was! Arafinwë knew Alqualondë better than any of us, and Nolofinwë was a master of diplomacy. They would both be invaluable counselors once I reached the city. To that end, I had sent word to them as soon as I received Olwë's letter. Both agreed to join me, and so even as Atar left our party at the gates of Tirion, my half-brothers joined us. They could hardly replace my father, of course, but over the summer I had gotten used to having them at my side. The familiarity was comforting.

In the end, though, none my traveling companions could help me. I alone could stand before the Teleri and speak the words that must be spoken. This was my battle. I became more and more keenly aware of how isolated I was in this with every passing mile. My dread grew until it consumed me, and I had to be reminded to eat and sleep. Even these simple tasks soon became all but impossible. My muscles grew so tense that in the evenings, Nerdanel warmed stones on the campfire and laid them on my shoulders. By day, the landscapes slipped by without making any impression whatsoever. At night, my dreams filled with Telerin wraiths, all intent upon tearing my soul from my body.

Thalieth and Cullasseth, who had wished to remain with my sons, gave me solace on the road. The two Sindar were always kind and warm. Thalieth's gentle words and Cullasseth's dauntless optimism kindled a spark of hope that my mission might succeed. In their company, I forgot, if only for a moment, the sickening weight in the pit of my stomach. More so, I rejoiced to see Maitimo and Macalaurë fall ever deeper in love. It was far too long since my eldest sons had known such happiness. Each time Nelyo and Thalieth smiled at each other, each time Káno kissed the top of Cullasseth's head, my heart sang.

The journey seemed interminable. Even so, when I caught the first whiff of salt and seaweed on the breeze, it seemed we had reached Alqualondë all too soon. The ground began to slope downwards, and the soil beneath our horses' hooves gave way to sand. Soon enough, we had our first glimpse of the city, cradled amidst high sand dunes and rocky bluffs. The last time I saw it, it was shrouded in a thick fog mixed with smoke from countless torches. The beach was strewn with the bodies of the slain and the sea-foam pink with blood. Now, all was peaceful and beautiful.

Alqualondë was less a city than an extension of the bay, the roads littered with sand and shells. The buildings, even the palace with its silver and sapphire dome, delved into the cliffs around the harbor. All had views of the sea. Some of the houses reached out into the water, built on a complex network of quays and boardwalk. Delicate lamps of silver hung from every archway and railing. Though none were lit at this time of the afternoon, I knew that the city was simply stunning at night. At the end of the docks, a new fleet of elegant white swan-ships lay at anchor, bobbing on the tide. My heart squeezed. It was difficult not to associate the lovely vessels with the metallic reek of blood and the ring of steel.

I glanced back at my sons, most of whom were pale. Maitimo and Macalaurë had been to Alqualondë on diplomatic business many times since the Kinslaying, but the rest had not. Tyelkormo looked the grimmest of all. I knew why: his soldiers took more Telerin lives than any of my other battalions. He too had demons to fight in the Haven of Swans.

Nerdanel drew her horse alongside mine, looking out at the sea sparkling in the sunlight. Then she turned to me and smiled. "Well, there's nothing for it. We're here now. Let us do what we came here to do, and then we'll all feel very much better."

I could only pray she was right on that count. We rode down a winding path that moved with the dunes until we came to the main gate. It was a living arch of sea-stone studded with shells and corals of all shapes and colors. There were no bars, as if the Teleri had not wanted to infect the rock with metal and rust. Instead, two silver-haired sentinels stood watch, one a _nís_ in Vanguard livery and the other a _nér_ in Olwë's colors. Their cold blue eyes would have made the Helcaraxë itself seem warm.

I had to swallow several times before I could speak, for my mouth had gone very dry. I could only hope the two guards could not see my pulse pounding in my chest.

I announced our party, forgoing our titles in an act of deference. "We come at the behest of His Majesty King Olwë –"

"We've been expecting you," the female sentry interrupted. "We will conduct you to the palace momentarily. Before we do, we ask that you hand over your weapons for the duration of your stay. You may rest assured that they will be well-guarded."

_I'm sure they will, lest I use them against you_ , I thought. My heart sank. I had expected a chilly reception, but this took me aback even so.

"You need fear no violence from us," I offered carefully. I knew I was walking a dangerous line. If I appeared too reluctant surrender my weaponry, I could jeopardize my mission of peace.

"Of course not," said the other Teler. His tone did not match his words, for it was even colder than his partner's. "It's merely a precaution, and not only for you. In fact, all who attend the Rindë Rácina, Noldor and Teleri, must leave their weapons behind. No one should have need of arms on a night of solemn remembrance."

_You believe there is need enough_ , I thought, watching the two sentinels stiffen. Plainly, they were not at all in agreement with this weapons ban. Their trust in me was all but nonexistent. Even so, I had to play the game.

"No need at all," I said as amiably as I could, unbuckling my sword from my saddle.

When the two sentries had divested us of everything dangerous, they went off to the armory. I turned to Nerdanel, trying to keep desperation out of my face. If I met with such suspicion at the gate, would speaking at the memorial make any difference at all? Would the people of Alqualondë even hear what I had to say? The name of the memorial - Rindë Rácina, the Broken Circle - did not sound promising.

"Do you know them?" I asked my wife.

"The lady is Raumolírë," said Nerdanel. Even she seemed faintly disturbed by the guards' curt behavior. "She serves in Eärwen's division of the Vanguard. Pay her no mind. It may not seem so, but she is on good terms with the Fëanárians. Let her get used to you being here; it must be rather a shock. I don't know the man she was with."

"I do," said Arafinwë grimly, "and I doubt you'll find a friend in him. His name is Sareär. He was – and is – part of High Prince Calairon's bodyguard. He was there during the First Kinslaying when Calairon fell. In fact, I believe Sareär himself perished in His Highness's defense."

An uneasy murmur ran through the party. Ai, as long as I lived, I would never get used to meeting people who died in my war! I swallowed the bile in my throat and silently repented for my sins against life.

Tyelkormo, though, seemed to have taken Arafinwë's words to heart. He was very pale and looked as though he was biting back strong emotions.

"Sareär?" he asked, voice carefully flat. "Did you say that was his name?" Arafinwë confirmed this, and Tyelkormo nodded grimly. "I think I killed him."

* * *

Tyelkormo was still visibly shaken by the time Raumolírë and Sareär returned from the armory. I shared his feelings. No doubt I too would encounter folk I had slain myself, and look into their eyes and see the shadow of death. I knew I would meet Prince Fárion at the very least, and that would be difficult enough, though I had only wounded him.

For the sake of my mission, I tried to shake myself free of my doubts. Faced with Raumolírë and Sareär's icy eyes, this was not easy. The wariness and old hurts in their faces kindled my own despair.

The two sentinels walked before our horses all the way to the palace at the opposite end of the city. Our route took us through residential areas, where we attracted quite a bit of notice. All along the streets, the folk of Alqualondë peered out of their doorways and windows to watch us pass. Many seemed curious, some suspicious; some even smiled. The odd few closed their shutters against us. One mother picked up her little boy and ushered him hurriedly into the house before he could approach me. This splintered my hope more than anything, for even in my darkest hour, I would never have harmed a child.

We reached our destination in due time. A wide courtyard opened out at the base of the palace stairs, an elegant swan-shaped fountain at the center. Water arced upward from the open beak and then cascaded back into the pool with a musical trickle. All around this fountain, servants, courtiers, and townsfolk alike sat eating, splashing their children, or talking with friends. This scene made me keenly aware of how out of place I was in Alqualondë, and not only because of my black hair and gray eyes. Tirion society was quite stratified even now, though it was much worse in my youth. There, save on days of feasting, none but royalty and nobility walked before the palace in the Court of the King. There were other courtyards and meeting-places for the common folk to gather. I had always thought this utterly ridiculous, and it seemed the Teleri agreed with me. In Alqualondë, all were equal.

We dismounted our horses and left them to the care of the grooms and the footmen, who took our baggage. After Raumolírë and Sareär sent word of our arrival to Olwë, they conducted us inside. The palace was a model of grace and elegance. In contrast to the natural appearance of the rest of the city, this building was high, domed, and opulent. Its walls contained two kinds of stone. The lower half was a blue-gray carven in waves, the upper a creamy marble with whorls that mimicked clouds. The ceiling of the throne room was covered with murals depicting the coming of the Teleri to Valinor. The great thrones of Olwë and his wife Hísealë, adorned with pearls and seashells, were, for the moment, mercifully empty.

The two guards led us to another wing of the palace, where they showed us our small but well-furnished rooms. Here the walls were low enough to consist entirely of the blue-grey stone, which made the chambers seem dark. Still, the windows were wide enough to let in the sunlight and the sea breeze. It was a bit too cool to have them open, but I did not much care. By this time, the air was so thick with distrust that I could scarcely breathe. The cloud of suspicion hovering over my head had become suffocating. Throwing the window open, I took deep breaths of the chilly evening air and willed my heart to resume its normal rhythm.

Nerdanel watched me as I leaned on the sill, inhaling and exhaling as though I had run for miles. She drew up behind me, her strong, skilled fingers caressing my arms.

"Are you all right, love?" she asked. I knew how concerned she must be, but I could not find the voice to answer. She seemed to sense this. She said nothing more, but wrapped her arms around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. We stayed thus for a long moment. I took what comfort I could from her presence, drawing on the solidity and faith that had made her a great leader.

Raumolírë returned, accompanied by several other Teleri in Vanguard livery, and asked for my wife. Apparently, they had strategies to discuss. Morgoth had undoubtedly devised many new devilries in the Void, they argued. Who was to say he would not attack by sea when he returned?

Bound by her duty, Nerdanel kissed my cheek and took her leave.

Still dizzy and breathless, I lowered myself to the floor beneath the window. I found my fingers tracing the patterns etched on the tiles, little clams and sea stars and shells. What was I to do? How would I reach the hearts of mothers who clutched their children in fear at the mere sight of me?

My breath slowly returned, but I lost myself to doubt. How long I sat there, staring ahead without seeing anything, I do not know. I was only roused from my lethargy by a rustle of fabric at the door. I looked up, expecting to see Nerdanel there, but it was not my lady.

It was Prince Fárion, Eärwen's youngest brother.

He had not changed much since the years before the Darkening, when all was youthful and bright. He wore simple robes of silvery blue that matched his hair, which was loose and unadorned save for a pearl clip at the back of his head. Fárion had never been much for ceremony. He was a gentle, warm soul, and he much preferred boat races and fishing to sitting in court with his older siblings. As I recalled, he was also very fond of the little creatures the Teleri called "the fire of the sea." They spread a blue-green radiance over the water when they came to the surface at night. Long ago, I made him a miniature lampstone for his begetting day to mimic that glow. What had become of it since, I did not know. Likely he had locked it away in some deep place, the better to forget both it and its maker.

Stranger still, a little girl stood at Fárion's side. From her clothing, I judged her to be the daughter of one of the palace maids. She was a delicate wisp of a child, with hair like mist and wide blue eyes. She did not seem at all afraid as she gazed steadily at me, but even so, I froze. I was certain that if I made the slightest move, she would flee from me, and I could not bear that. But she did nothing of the sort. At a gentle nudge from Fárion, she withdrew from a pocket of her dress a little shell hung on a length of twine. It was a creamy white dusted with rose, and so beautifully polished by the sea that it shone like glass. Without a word, the girl hung it around my neck with all the solemnity as though she had just crowned me her king. Her message was clear: to her, I was welcome in her city, and she was not afraid.

This simple, profound gesture touched me so deeply that I felt my chest tighten. My heart fluttered like a bird's with a strange combination of delight and heartache. How could I thank this little one, this child who had shown me kindness and faith?

"Did you find this yourself, my dear?" I asked, my voice hoarse. She nodded gravely. "It's such an especially fine shell that I cannot take it from you."

The girl shook her head firmly and touched the shell, silently telling me that I must keep it. Then she returned to Fárion's side. She gave me what might have been an approving nod, dipped a curtsy, and disappeared down the hall.

The two of us were alone then. A silence fell that was undoubtedly more awkward for me than it was for Fárion. Fárion was never awkward. He had an easy, comfortable way with everyone from the highest king to the smallest child. It was a gift I could only wish to possess.

Fárion sat down beside me. His smile had not lost its sincerity, but nor was it the bright, innocent smile of his youth. "I fear your welcome here has been less than warm," he said ruefully.

I waved a hand in dismissal. I found I could not meet Fárion's kindly eyes without seeing them as they had been that bloody night, filled with desperation. I suddenly became very interested in the carvings on the floor again. "It hardly came as a surprise," I said flatly.

"Don't mistake the people's caution for hatred," said Fárion. "They've grown used to your sons again, but not to you - not yet. Things will improve. You see, that little girl you met just now will go home tonight. She'll tell her parents and her friends that she met Prince Fëanáro, and he was not the least bit frightening. Her parents will tell their relations; her friends will tell their playmates, and so on. As long as people like her spread the word, you will win back the trust of the Teleri one step at a time. One spark starts a fire, as your folk would say."

I smiled grimly. The girl had given me reason to hope for success, but it was not enough to drive out my choking skepticism. "I wish I had your faith."

Fárion eyed me pityingly. Then he clasped my hands in his warmer ones and said with a note of exasperation, "Come, Fëanáro, why are you so distant? We were friends once! We spent whole afternoons fishing out at sea. You built the most wonderful bonfires to cook our suppers on when we returned. You remember how we lay on the sand and talked until night fell, and you drew all sorts of things in the stars. No matter what it was I asked for, you always found the outline somewhere in the sky. That made you happy, I think –"

I shook my head to stem the flow of Fárion's words. At one time Fárion had looked at me as an elder brother, but those days were gone. The memory of them was poisoned. It was agony to think of it now.

"We can't go back to that time, Fárion," I said hoarsely. "Things have changed."

Fárion's smile faltered. "Of course they have, but why can't we –"

"How could we possibly be friends after what happened here?"

It was more of a demand than a question, and the steel in my voice took Fárion aback. He released my hands as though I had struck him. He was not smiling now. To his credit, however, he drew himself up and responded very steadily, "We need not speak of that night. It's been a very long time, and much has healed."

Somewhere in my mind, I knew I was heading for a dangerous precipice. I had faced it many times since my release from Mandos, and beyond a certain point, return was impossible. Part of me did not want to return. Part of me _wanted_ to speak of the First Kinslaying, to fall from that precipice for the thousandth time and punish myself anew. Such was my nature; it had always been so. Atar and I argued often after he married Indis. After we fought, I would always feel so guilty that I would analyze the arguments to death. I would make ever-growing lists of my own faults until I was thoroughly miserable. It was the same now. Of all those who sought to condemn me, I was ever and always the harshest judge.

But then, I had sworn before the three pyres of the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva that I would not dwell in the darkness of my past. Fëanáro Kinslayer was dead; I had sung his requiem myself. I had been punished in accordance with my crimes and the One had released me. That ought to be more than enough. Why did I seek to bind myself to the Void anew?

I had to stop before I fell any deeper.

Suddenly, I was altogether tired of fighting. The breeze from outside had turned chilly. "Perhaps I feel I owe it to you," I sighed, wrapping my arms around myself. "I _did_ stab you."

Fárion smiled sadly. "I thought I'd stabbed _you_ , but perhaps I didn't pierce your armor. We fought to stay alive that night, for the first time in our experience, and it made us fierce. War is like that: when our lives are threatened, we do things we would never do otherwise. The Children don't have the wisdom to find meaning in such a mess. That's best left to the Allfather.

"If you asked my people what you owe them, they would all say that life is the only true payment for life. You rendered your life long ago, and our dead have since been reborn. There's little more you can give us now. If you still want to do something, _speak at the Rindë Rácina_. No matter who may try to stop you, don't let them. It will mean a great deal to us if you stand before us and call for peace. No, it won’t change what happened, but it will show us that _you_ have changed. It will show me if you deserve the second chance I've given you. I have faith that you do.”

_You have faith in who I used to be_ , I thought. A thousand other venomous remarks leapt to my tongue, but I clamped my jaw down on them. Instead, I leaned my head against the wall and pondered Fárion's words. How many others were like him, wary but willing to give me a second chance if I could prove myself sincere? I could not reach hearts clouded by hatred, but the rest would surely hear me. I had to speak to the Teleri, no matter how discouraged I felt. If even a few were as gracious as the little shell girl, they were worth fighting for.

I had not banished my doubts, but at least I had pulled myself out of the mire threatening to swallow me. That was something. I looked back at Fárion, who was still watching me steadily. His faith was so very like Senindë's, though I suspected Fárion was not quite as forgiving as Her Excellency. Senindë was exceptional in that regard.

"Are you so sure of me?" I asked him. It was a subtle test, but a test all the same. I had to know the extent of his support. "Everything has changed, you know."

Fárion smiled vaguely, and his hand strayed to the neck of his robes. He withdrew a fine chain holding the little lampstone I made for him ages ago.

"Not everything," he told me.

That was his answer, then. I had his ear, if not yet his forgiveness. When I spoke at the memorial, he would hear me with an open mind. I felt myself warm a bit.

Fárion offered me his hands and drew me to my feet. "My father has a trial for you tonight," he said. "He wishes you to have dinner with us."

My heart skipped several uncomfortable beats at the thought of sharing a meal with the Telerin royal family. I knew there was no getting out of it. If I was to win back the trust of the Teleri, I might as well start now. Still, I could not resist giving Fárion a disparaging look. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

"This moment?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"In a quarter hour or so," said Fárion. "Will that give you time to change out of your traveling clothes?"

I sank back to my knees with a resigned sigh, turning my eyes skyward. "Give me strength."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raumolírë - Storm Song
> 
> Sareär - Sea Stone
> 
> Calairon - Sea Light
> 
> Fárion - Son of the Shore
> 
> Hísealë - Mist Spirit


	24. First Steps

I have had more than my share of awkward moments in my life. All my reunions following my rebirth surely qualify. My proposal of marriage to Nerdanel stands out in my mind. There was, too, a memorable occasion on which I had rather too much wine at a festival and began asking quite seriously what was holding up the stars. Once, as a child, I even slept-walked into the palace gardens and woke sitting in a fountain under the curious eye of a night bird.

Dinner with the Telerin royal family exceeded all of these.

It began on an inauspicious note. Fárion and I were on our way to the family's small private dining room when we heard the sound of raised voices. Looking down the hall, we saw Olwë and Calairon standing in the doorway, clearly in the midst of a heated argument. Olwë was as regal as my own father, clad in white shot with pale blue, a pearl diadem at his brow. Like Fárion, he seemed to have taken care to dress in a neutral manner, but Calairon – Calairon was ice incarnate. His robes were all in shades of blue and sea-green, and a proud silver swan with obsidian eyes pinned his cloak at each shoulder. There was no question at all where his allegiance lay.

One look at the high prince of Alqualondë told me he was unlikely to be receptive to my message of peace. When I caught wind of his words, however, I felt as though I had just missed several steps going downstairs.

"I know how difficult this is for you, my son. It’s difficult for us all. But if you do not grow accustomed to the idea now, you never will," Olwë was saying.

"And why must I?" Calairon shot back, crossing his arms in a way that was at once defiant and insecure. "Since when has Alqualondë made it a practice to ally with kinslayers?"

"War is coming, like it or not. We were scarcely able to defeat the Dark Lord in the War of Wrath, and do not doubt that he will be stronger this time. We need a united front if we are to win."

"Then we ought to send that murderous madman back to Mandos before he brings death to us again! We should have Fëanáro killed, not invite him to dinner!"

"That would only make us kinslayers ourselves. Do not be so quick to deal out death. You know what it means."

"I don't truly wish him dead, but Atar, do not let him speak. Do not let him tell the people his lies and give them false security."

I did not realize how weak my knees had gone until I felt my back collide heavily with the wall. My heartbeat was rapid, irregular. I was reminded forcefully of the look of loathing on Turindo's face as he watched me drink his poisoned wine. Was my life now in danger along with my mission? I had thought myself prepared to hear all manner of angry words, but it seemed my walls were not as strong as I imagined. One can only be called a monster so many times before he begins to believe it himself. I had to get away, I had to breathe, I had to –

Shaking my head, I turned to walk back to my room. I was trembling from head to foot, and as I stumbled, Fárion caught my arm.

"Please stay," he whispered urgently. "Don't mind Calairon. My brother spent a long while in Mandos. He…has had difficulty adjusting to life again, and even more so to the idea of your rebirth. It doesn't matter to him that you yourself didn't take his life. He fears you for what you did that night all the same. Atar keeps insisting that he must try to move on, but…I don't think my brother knows how. It may do him some good to see you."

Bitter, broken laughter tumbled from my lips. "It will do just the opposite!"

Fárion laced his arm through mine, squeezing it gently. "Tonight, perhaps. Tonight your presence may indeed upset him, and perhaps tomorrow night and the night after. But if you are gentle and kind, as I know you can be, in time you will prove to him that you mean us no harm. You must start somewhere."

"Easier said than done," I muttered darkly. I tried to ignore the fear and loathing in Calairon's face as we walked into the dining room. I did not have much success.

I learned quite a few things at dinner that night. Among the first was that the Telerin royal family was of three opinions on my rebirth. Eärwen and Fárion seemed to be of much the same mind; if anything, Eärwen was the most willing to forgive. I had to keep my jaw from dropping when she turned up for dinner dressed all in Fëanárian crimson embroidered with silver to match her hair. The diamond coronet she wore gleamed in the candlelight as she offered me a nod and a determined, "Welcome to Alqualondë." She had not lost a bit of her grace or her spirit.

"You must be mad to wear my colors," I whispered to her so that her family would not hear.

"Probably." She smiled a little, and I knew she was looking for the shadow of violence in my eyes. "I do this for our peoples' sake. Don't make me regret it."

"I won't, Your Highness. Never again."

A strange reunion, but then, what does one say to an old friend separated by such a gulf of years and bloodshed? Whether because of her marriage to Arafinwë, her allegiance to Nerdanel, or reasons of her own, Eärwen had made her decision. She had placed her trust in the Noldor, and in me. Now my task was to prove myself worthy of it.

Fárion was, as I had guessed earlier, a bit wary, but quite gracious and cordial all the same. Queen Hísealë was plainly of her elder son's persuasion – grim and suspicious. She at least seemed amenable to giving me a chance, if I could withstand her tests and subtle jibes. Olwë was caught somewhere in the middle, neither friendly nor cold. Calairon did not speak to me at all.

Seafood was not a favorite of mine, but I made certain to give no sign of this. If ever there was a time when I had to be a perfect courtier, a perfect diplomat, it was now. I knew all five of them were watching and evaluating every move I made, judging my will and my sincerity. This sort of scrutiny was precisely what I hated about politics. It left me physically exhausted. I knew I would have to take a scalding bath to ease the stiffness from my shoulders and the knots from my stomach.

Thank Eru for Eärwen: she was wonderful. Without her, I do not think I could have sat at that table anywhere near as long as I did. The tension in the air did not seem to trouble her one bit. She navigated it with the same ease as her fishermen docked their boats in the harbor. I reflected that it must have been very difficult for her to win Noldorin acceptance when she was queen. The Noldor dislike being told what to do even by their own kin, and by outsiders most of all. Having ruled this stubborn people for ages, there must be very little that could trouble Eärwen now.

She managed to stave off mention of the First Kinslaying until we had finished the clam chowder, the crab cakes, and the lobster pasta. She spoke instead of the tales Ambassador Senindë had brought back from her summer in Formenos. The gentle, cheerful way in which she drew me into the conversation relaxed me by cautious degrees. Soon enough, I found myself talking of my hikes to the waterfall pool and the eagle-back ride I took with Nerdanel.

"I pray you're a better flier than a sailor," Fárion laughed. "Do you remember the first time we had a boat race? You clipped the pier on your way back into the harbor and sank!"

"I fear you pray in vain," I returned. "Nerdanel managed the flying that night, not I. I hung on for dear life and tried not to look down." To my surprise, even Hísealë smiled faintly at this. "What a summer it was! It did my heart such good. There were days when I felt prepared to face practically anything."

Olwë was regarding me steadily over the rim of his wine glass. The way he raised his eyebrows at this statement told me that I had just made a grave mistake.

"I'm glad to hear it, Finwion," he said, his blue eyes boring into mine. "Perhaps, with your spirit newly emboldened, you will address the people at the Rindë Rácina tomorrow evening."

It was all I could do not to spit out my mouthful of wine. I swallowed too fast and had to cough politely behind my napkin as the alcohol burned down my throat. I felt dizzy, and entirely too conscious of my food sitting heavily in my stomach. Olwë's "request" was undoubtedly a command, just like his letter of summons. I suspected he had already announced to the people that I would be attending the ceremony. This was a test, and if I was to pass, I had only one choice. Yet even knowing this, I could not force myself to speak the words. How could I possibly do so, and commit myself to face the Teleri with less than a night's warning? No one had told me the precise date of the ceremony of remembrance; I'd thought I might have a week!

"Tomorrow," I faltered. "I…I had hoped to…"

"To what, prince?" asked Hísealë. The net of sapphires in her hair winked mockingly in the candlelight. Her smile held concern on the surface and predation beneath. "To prepare? How could you ever prepare to address those you have wronged so grievously?"

She had cornered me. Worse still, she was right. I had endured this same agony just before I reunited with my sons. No amount of preparation had helped me then, and it would not help me now. I felt sick. My face burned, and I bowed my head to hide my reddened cheeks. "Tomorrow will be fine," I muttered, and hated myself for it. My illusion was ruined, and anything I said now would be in vain. I had been defeated, and all five of them knew it.

To my surprise, Eärwen squeezed my hand under the table to give me strength. Calairon, who was nearest to her, caught sight of this and shot us a glare that could have frozen a wildfire.

"Why did you come to Alqualondë?" asked Hísealë. There was no mistaking the challenge in her voice. "There is a rumor among the people that you came not to repent of your misdeeds, but to ease your guilty conscience."

At that moment, I thought I knew what an insect under a magnifying lens must feel like. Eärwen must have understood, for she gave me a small encouraging nod. I squeezed her hand and thought of Senindë's grace and Fárion's faith. Perhaps I could save myself from ruin yet.

With a supreme effort, I forced my face to relax.

"They're right in part," I said. "I do carry a great deal of guilt for what happened here, and it will do my heart good to face your people and tell them so. But I also wish to reconcile with the Teleri, and not only for practical reasons. I loved this city in my youth. It was a place of freedom and adventure for me. I once had dear friends among the Teleri, as did many of my people. I would see those friendships renewed. I'm told that much has healed in my absence, but I fear my rebirth has reopened old wounds. I wish to change that. I wish to complete our healing and close the circle. Life is too precious to spend in bitterness and suspicion, as I learned all too late. I wish to keep our peoples from falling into the same trap, especially the reborn and the little ones. For their sake more than any, we ought to drive out our demons and return to peace."

Despite my intense need to make a good impression, my words were quite sincere. Everything I had said, I believed with all my heart.

Hísealë also seemed to sense that my words held more than empty rhetoric. She leaned back in her chair and gave me an approving nod. "You speak well," she said. "I thank you for your honesty."

I inclined my head in gratitude, but I did not relax. Hísealë would take much more convincing before she came to my side. She had been mollified for now, but not swayed by any means. The war was far from over. As long as I was in this city, I had to be on my guard. 

This point came home when Calairon, who was looking increasingly upset, dropped his fork with a clatter. His face twisted as he looked at his mother in his disbelief. "How can you listen to –" he choked out, voice distorted with emotions too tangled to name. "How could you believe what he –" He stood up, slamming his chair back into the wall and wrapping an arm around his stomach as if to keep from sobbing. "Excuse me; I've rather a headache," he managed. Then he turned and left the room, offering me a venomous look that said, _You make me sick_.

A strained silence fell. I looked down again, unsurprised but disheartened.

"Do forgive him," said Olwë at last. "Rebirth has been difficult for Calairon. He cannot reconcile the man you are now with the man who laid waste to our city. He has convinced himself that your mission of peace must be a guise for something sinister. Give him time. He will learn."

Disturbed as I was by Calairon's behavior, I could not let it put me off. It was time to work myself out of the corner I had backed into and issue Olwë a challenge of my own.

"And what do you believe, Your Majesty?" I asked.

If Olwë was surprised by this turn in the conversation, he hid it well. "Your father is a dear friend," he began steadily. "When you were born, I rejoiced with him. I held you in my arms and saw the great mind behind your infant eyes. When you brought your own sons here to visit, it was clear how much they loved you, and how much you loved them in return. You were so dear to Eärwen and Fárion as well. Indeed, at one time I thought that you and my daughter might make a fine couple. But I also saw the shadow that followed you, Finwion: the shadow of your mother's death, and of your pride. I saw the madness that swallowed you when you lost your father.

"You have asked me what I believe. I will say this: I know you to be a man capable of great love and loyalty, and your talents are beyond compare. But I've also known you to be insecure, possessive, and violent. For that reason I cannot trust you unreservedly until you prove to me that Mandos has changed you as much as it seems."

The words stung, as the truth always does, and I felt myself filled with anger. I longed to say that the deaths of my mother and father gave me plenty of reason to be insecure and possessive. I wanted to tell him that he had never experienced death or the Void, and if he knew anything of that, he might be more inclined to believe I had changed. But I said none of this. I swallowed the words and forced myself to remember that Olwë, unlike Calairon, had given me a chance.

Biting down on my anger, I said smoothly, "I thank you for your honesty," It was higher praise than he deserved, but such was the nature of these things. It was a politician's duty to out-grace his opponents. "I shall do my utmost to win your trust."

Olwë eyed me curiously. "I suspect you will. You speak as well as ever."

* * *

I left the dining room feeling smothered, anxious, and sullied by playing the smooth-voiced courtier. The air had again become too thick to breathe, and my skin was flushed and heated. I was half tempted to dive into the sea and swim by moonlight until my head stopped spinning and I felt clean again. Never mind the cold. I would sooner freeze than go mad again, surrounded by ghosts with suspicion dogging my every footstep.

I reached my room, which was dark and empty. Nerdanel was still out with her troops, it seemed. I thought somewhat resentfully that she must be having a much better evening than I. Without bothering to light a lamp, I threw my tunic on the bed and unbuttoned my shirt, letting the night air from the window dance frostily over my skin. My hand found the diamond pendant that hung around my neck at all times, the Star of my house. I had kept it hidden beneath my clothes at dinner, but now I clutched it tightly, my fingers running over every familiar facet. I willed myself to lay down my mask, to become the true Curufinwë Fëanáro again, without shame. It was like prying bricks out of a wall.

The cold breeze had not yet cooled my heated skin when the sounds of muffled weeping reached me. Thinking it might be one of my sons suffering from the same distress visited upon me, I stepped into the hall. The lamps had been extinguished, but there was a window at the end of the corridor. By the shaft of moonlight I could discern a figure – Calairon.

He was leaning against the wall, one hand clapped to his mouth and the other wrapped around his middle. It was the same gesture he had made before fleeing the dining room, as though trying to hold himself together. I realized then with a jolt of horror that that might be precisely what he was doing. He was remembering the way he died, clutching the wound in his stomach in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding.

Calairon's face was as youthful as I remembered, youthful enough that he might have been one of my sons. He wept so grievously that his shoulders shook and left him gasping for breath. Every paternal instinct I possessed urged me to comfort him. My heart ached, both for his pain and for what I had done to bring it upon him. He had not died by my hand, but he might as well have, for all he was concerned.

I knew that any attempt to soothe him would only upset him further, but I could not stop myself. I drew near to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Your Highness, I…I'm so sorry," was all I could think to say.

Calairon started violently at my touch as though he had been burned. Multiple emotions flashed across his face – fear, anguish, hate, desperation – so rapidly that I wondered how he did not scream. He seized a fistful of my shirt, as though instinct drove him to seek the comfort that only a father's embrace can give. But then he seemed to come back to himself and remember who and what I was. "Leave me alone," he told me – it was almost a plea. He flung himself away so forcefully that I stumbled backwards, then he took off running down the corridor, blinded by tears.

I longed to go after him, to sit with this frightened young man until he spoke his tangled thoughts and purged the poison from his soul. Even so, I knew that my presence would do him no good tonight. I let my breath go out in a long, weary sigh, sick at heart. How could I make him see that I meant him no harm? How could I make any of the Teleri see that?

I touched the shell the little girl had hung around my neck. _Would that everyone was as sure as you, child_ , I thought. _Would that I was_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rindë Rácina - Broken Circle


	25. Stars

Calairon's face haunted me all that night, and not only his. As much as I tried to relax and sleep, I could not. My mind tormented me with thoughts of all the people who might have slept in my appointed bedchamber. A music student, perhaps, nervously tuning her harp as she prepared to give her senior recital, her graduation from Alqualondë's prestigious music school hanging in the balance. A husband and wife, cradling their firstborn baby between them, flushed with the joy of presenting their child to the royal court. A merchant, returned from Tirion with casks of fine wine, surreptitiously sampling the vintage from a hidden flask. How many of them had been real? How many had lived here? How many had died on the docks?

I knew I would find no peace in that room. The beach would be worse, for it was more haunted still than the palace. But at least there I would be able to roam, rather than pace back and forth between the same four walls until I lost my mind. My window was low and opened onto the beach, and that was sufficient excuse for me. I threw a cloak over my shoulders and stepped through.

Tirion was silent at night, but Alqualondë was not. Here, the sighing of the sea was so constant as to slip from one's consciousness. I had not yet reached that point. To my ears, the waves were still loud and forceful, but I was glad of the sound. I did not want it to recede into my subconscious and leave my mind open to all sorts of dark, dangerous thoughts. I wanted it to distract me. I wanted it to numb me, body and soul, until I felt prepared to think and feel again. Thus, when I reached the end of the nearest quay, I laid down my cloak and boots and slipped into the water without bothering to undress.

The sea was warmer than the air, but only by a small margin. The shock of the cold stole my breath away, and I had to clutch the edge of the pier for a moment before striking out. The moon was bright enough to keep the outline of the quayside in view, and the waves were gentle. I turned onto my back and floated there, moving only now and again to keep myself relatively warm. It was not comfortable, but the cold cleared my mind until I found some semblance of calm.

The stars were bright and beautiful against the black sky. I could make out distant, clustered bands like veils cast across the heavens. I began to wonder whether there were other worlds in that vast ocean of space. Were they anything like ours, if they existed? Did their people look up at their skies and ponder the very same questions I now held in my mind? Did the Valar and Maiar visit those places when they cast off their physical forms? Some of them certainly had a habit of disappearing for long periods.

The sky and the waves were indistinguishable shades of black by now. It seemed there was an ocean above me and an ocean beneath me, and I hovered in some narrow borderland between. If I could find the right spot, I thought, could I reach up and fall from the sea of water into the sea of stars? I often thought such things as a child. I believed them too, until I grew older and more cynical and read more than was good for me.

The Teleri had a superstition about Sartë, the north star that guided mariners' voyages. According to legend, its constancy extended beyond its navigational aid. The Teleri believed – or at least music students taking final exams did – that Sartë could make any wish, however drastic, come true. Looking up at that one bright star in the sky, I felt tempted to wish away the Silmarilli, the Darkening, and everything that followed. It would never work, I knew, but it might do me some good to indulge in the fantasy and be a child again.

But then…what if, by some impossible chance, it _did_ work?

What if the Darkening were to vanish, obliterated from the record of time? What if Moringotto never attacked, and we went on living in the bliss of the Trees as we had for ages? We would be innocent and naïve still today, perhaps, and our lives would surely be easier. But we would be living in a gilded cage, knowing nothing of the outside world, of struggle, or of our true potential. Bored to death with paradise and immortality – or worse, content with it, and with stagnation.

Aye, many of us were haunted now, and all of us were sadder and wiser. We were harder, rougher, more urgent, more purposeful. We seized every opportunity and took nothing for granted, no longer assured of our immortality. But we truly _lived_ now, not merely existed. We could fully appreciate rest now that we knew exhaustion. We could revel in joy now that we knew sorrow. We could comprehend the infinite preciousness of life now that we knew death.

 _Light the mother of shadow -_ the words Andion had inscribed on the dagger she gave to me, the same words I offered Tyelperinquar in his boyhood. _One cannot exist without the other, not without reducing the world to half of what it ought to be_.

I would accept the regret and the guilt of my sins in return for the awakening, our awakening, that came of them. I wished that we had not left behind our dream world in so brutal a manner, but I would never wish for that world back.

And so, I offered up a different appeal, sending it to the stars along with the cloud of my breath:

 _May the lives of the Quendi be always rich and fulfilling, and may they not be broken by their suffering, but made strong_.

* * *

I swam until I exceeded even my high tolerance for cold, then returned to the pier. The city of Alqualondë seemed to wear a mesh of silver fireflies now, so numerous were the lamps hanging from every archway and eave. The lamps themselves I was fairly certain were of Telerin make, but the design was Noldorin, and that set me at ease. It seemed a good omen that the Teleri should unite their craft with that of the Noldor to beautify their city.

The cold made me clumsy, and I shook rather badly as I put my hands on the dock and raised myself waist-high out of the water. I was summoning the strength to lift myself up the rest of the way when suddenly, a shadow fell between me and the silver glow of the city.

"Are you all right?" asked a voice from above me.

I found myself looking up into the face of Raumolírë, one of the sentries who had been at the city gates that afternoon. The light of the lamps played over her pale skin and caught in her silver hair, lending her a ghostly appearance. She clearly recognized me, but her eyes were softer than they had been earlier. Still, it did not escape my notice that she held her hand away from her side, as if poised to draw an arrow from the quiver on her back.

"Has someone hurt you?" she asked, kneeling down so that she could meet my gaze.

I could all too easily understand why she might think that, given some of the looks I had received from the people of Alqualondë. I thanked Eru that I could deny it this time.

"Oh, no, Captain. I merely thought I would go for a swim to clear my mind."

"'Tis rather cold for that."

"On the contrary; the cold was precisely what I needed, but I confess that it has become a bit much."

Raumolírë's lips twitched into a faint smile. "You really are as eccentric as Arhestë Istarnië says, aren't you? I know of none save for young lads testing each other's strength who will willingly swim at this time of the autumn. Come, give me your hand before you freeze."

She laid down her bow - though she kept it close at hand - and took my arm with surprising strength. With her help, I was able to lift myself onto the dock. I stripped off my wet shirt without another thought and pulled my cloak around my shoulders. Raumolírë watched me shiver with neither kindness nor hatred in her eyes, only a cool neutrality. She sat down next to me and drew one knee up to her chest, looking out at the harbor with a quiet, contemplative face.

"What were you thinking about?" she asked.

"Oh...yesterday, and today, and tomorrow."

Raumolírë nodded. She had clearly taken my meaning. "I suppose I was thinking the same - but then, there's hardly much else to do on a night patrol like this. I never expected to have to fish Finwë Noldóran's heir out of the harbor, at any rate."

She was making an effort to lighten the mood, but the tension between us was still palpable. It was painfully clear that I made her uncomfortable, and I was uncertain what to do about it.

"What made you join the Vanguard?" I asked before I could stop myself. It was a terrible way to break the awkward silence, but at least it was something. "Why do you serve my wife, knowing that she fights in my name, under my banner, to avenge all the Free Folk but most especially the Noldor?"

Raumolírë looked at me sharply. "It has nothing to do with you, son of Finwë. I serve under Arhestë Istarnië because she is the finest, bravest person I know. I could have fought in the First Kinslaying, but instead I hid and did nothing while my people died. Nerdanel and the Vanguard gave me a second chance to prove myself a soldier. She is a courageous, intelligent leader, and she loves us as her sisters and her daughters. She suffered unthinkably and emerged all the stronger. For that, she has earned my sword and my everlasting respect. The same could be said for the friends I have among the Fëanárians. Their allegiance never enters into it. They are my friends because they are strong, kind, and willing to right their past wrongs. And as for you, sir…"

Raumolírë's voice had risen, and here she paused to collect her thoughts and her breath. When next she spoke, her countenance was clear, but the ardent light in her eyes had not dimmed. I had the distinct impression that I was about to be issued a challenge.

"If you can prove when you speak tomorrow that you are repentant and honorable, then I may yet offer you my sword."

"Would you truly ally yourself with a kinslayer?"

Raumolírë looked at me steadily. The silver lights of the city reflected in her blue eyes, like dozens of lampstones set adrift on the waves. "I recognize that there is a far greater enemy than Curufinwë Fëanáro at work in this world," she said. "I don't entirely trust you, nor have I forgiven you, but I recognize the true threat we face. The Dark Lord is preparing for his return _now_. Woe unto those Teleri who still cling to their hatred of the Noldor when Morgoth comes again. They will be first to fall."

She stood and drew me up with her. "Prove yourself to me tomorrow, son of Finwë," she said. "Prove yourself to us all. I wish you luck - and I mean that with all my heart."

Raumolírë led me back to my room before returning to her patrol. Nerdanel was there, still awake with a single candle burning on the night-table and a bed of coals on the hearth. My dripping hair and conspicuous shivering won me a look of reproach. Then my wife relented and sat me down on the bed with a mug of warm tea. Once I had changed into something dry, she filled the basin, lathered her hands, and washed the sea salt out of my hair. Her touch was so gentle and tender that I could have fallen asleep right there, but she flatly refused. When Nerdanel had finished her ministrations, she took my arm and led me back to bed once. There, her reassuring presence and the day's emotional toll bore me quickly into slumber.

The uneasy ache in the pit of my stomach woke me the next morning when the dawn was still pale. I lay on my side for a long while, watching the patch of sunlight on the floor lengthen and brighten. Nerdanel stayed with me, deftly working the tangles from my hair and conveying a love deeper than any words. She had apparently been awake for some time, for she was already dressed for the day's events. She also seemed to have gotten word of Eärwen wearing Fëanárian colors to dinner the previous night: my wife was clad in a gown of wine-red embroidered with gold. A Fëanárian star pinned her braids at the back of her head. Before I could ask what she hoped to accomplish by this, she shushed me with a finger to my lips. Then she took my own eight-rayed star pendant from the dressing table and hung it around my neck.

"My advice to you is this, my love," she said. "Remember who you are. No matter the guilt you feel, don't let it make you into someone you are not. You must remain Curufinwë Fëanáro, whomever you consider him to be."

Nolofinwë had told me something very similar on the eve of my conference with Senindë in Formenos. Be sincere, but do not yield too much ground, he said. An extraordinarily fine line had divided the two even then; now it was all but invisible. Still, I knew Nerdanel was right. The Teleri would not trust me if I failed to express my sorrow, but nor would they respect me if I cast aside my dignity. I had to be firm – firm but gentle. My stomach dropped sickeningly at the mere thought of trying to strike such a balance. Never in all my ages of experience as an orator had I faced such a challenge. How I wished I could close my eyes and make it all go away!

I did not think I could stand to eat, so I set to making myself presentable instead. I lacked the courage to dress myself in red, but nor did I wish to concede entirely and wear Telerin blue. I settled for robes of white and pale gold, tying a red sash at my waist as a compromise. My Fëanárian star and the shell I left visible over my clothes. One would remind me of my people's undying loyalty, the other of all those Teleri who had given me a second chance. I could only pray that I would prove myself worthy of both, and not step meekly back into the shadow of guilt.

Once I had set a simple pearl circlet at my brow, I sat back and scrutinized my reflection in my dressing table mirror. I was too pale, and there was something in my eyes that reminded me of a wounded animal. That would not do. I could not let the Teleri see how frightened I was. They would think me weak, indecisive. The ceremony was not until the evening, so I still had far too much time to wallow in my own uncertainty. Perhaps I ought to seek some advice or take a long, soothing walk.

I sat there for as long as I could bear, playing cat's cradle with a piece of string to give my restless hands something to do. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I had to get up and move about, or I would go mad. The ceremony was to take place in a sacred grotto where the Kinslaying's victims were given to the sea. I would walk there and pass as much time as I could on the way, I decided. I knew I might meet Calairon in the corridors, and my frayed nerves could not stand that, but I had to take the risk. I simply could not sit idle, not when my every fiber was vibrating with tension so strong that my hands shook.

* * *

I did not have to walk alone. My half-brothers, Nolofinwë in silver and Arafinwë in gold, were waiting at my door when I opened it, wondering if I might like some company. I was glad for their presence as we made our way through the corridors. I could not help but notice what a striking picture the three of us made. We elicited bows from nearly every servant we passed in the halls, and smiles from some. I could not tell my half-brothers how grateful I was to them that day. They stood behind me in silent support and showed the Teleri that Finwë's heirs were no longer the estranged, feuding princes of the past.

We lingered for a time behind the magnificent double doors of the palace, each carven with a trumpeting swan, and listened to the sounds of the city outside. Now that it came to actually going outside and seeing the place I was to speak, I found I lacked the strength. Instead, we sat on a private balcony where none could see us but the sea. Eärwen and Fárion joined us, she speaking soft, encouraging words and he talking merrily of the racing ship he was building with his friends. I knew they were both trying to distract me.

Queen Hísealë visited us with her husband sometime later. She said nothing to me. Though her eyes held subtle approval, I knew she was waiting to pounce on the first mistake I made. Olwë himself was regal with a swan-down train over his shoulders; I had never seen him look so imposing. He eyed me up and down for a moment and then said, "How very like your father you look, Finwion." I was left to ponder whether this was a compliment or an insult. Atar and Olwë were old friends, but they had their differences. Olwë had always disapproved of the favor Atar showed me, and of his passivity in my feud with Nolofinwë.

Finally, the appointed hour came. By then I was barely holding my nerves in check. When the guards arrived to escort us to the grotto, I felt so dizzy that I had to lean against the wall. I seemed to have acquired the heartbeat of a hummingbird. I was deeply glad that I had not tried to eat anything: I would never have been able to keep it down. With a sickening rush of adrenaline, I realized - not for the first time - that I did not know what to say to the Teleri.

I drew Arafinwë to me, wishing I could steal away his serenity and take it for my own. "Aro, you know these people," I whispered frantically. "Tell me what to –"

Arafinwë shook his head with quiet assurance. "I can tell you nothing that you don’t already know yourself," he said, squeezing my cold, trembling hands. "I will say only that I have the greatest confidence in you. You will do the House of Finwë proud. When the Teleri speak the name of Fëanáro in days to come, they will remember how good and brave you were this evening."

I had no chance to respond. Olwë touched my arm, beckoning me to process through the palace doors with my half-brothers and the Telerin royal family. It was only then, as I took my place behind Olwë, that I realized Calairon was not present.

I could not dwell on this. The guards had pulled open the doors, sending sunset streaming into the foyer. There was no chance of turning back now – but then, for me, had there ever been?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arhestë - my title for Nerdanel as head of the Vanguard, meaning "High Captain."
> 
> Sartë - "the Steadfast," appropriately for the North Star.
> 
> Now you know how the title of this story works into the plot! However, Sartë itself, and the wish Fëanor is tempted to make on it, is only the literal meaning behind "one star in the sky." There's a whole array of deeper meanings it could have. Maybe that one star is a metaphor for Fëanor's family, the one thing that kept him going in the Void and afterwards. Maybe it refers to the chance at redemption and healing he's been given. Maybe it refers to Fëanor himself, only one life out of the many that make up the world, but contributing a light that would otherwise be missed. I don't have a particular idea I'm set on; you be the judge! :)


	26. Broken Circle

Addressing crowds had never made me nervous - at least, not until now. It seemed that much of Alqualondë had come to hear me speak, and those who could not fit into the grotto beneath the palace had improvised. There were Teleri in every direction, perched on dock pilings and lamps and ships moored beyond the cave mouth. I hadn't seen so many people in one place since the day I was reinstated as High Prince of the Noldor in Formenos. At that time, all I had to do was pledge my duty with a simple, "I do." This was entirely different. In Formenos, I had been surrounded by supporters who wished me nothing but well; not so now. Of the faces I could make out from where I stood, some were gentle and encouraging. Others were hard and suspicious. How many of them, I wondered, were like Hísealë, poised to tear me apart?

More than that, I was keenly aware that I did not belong here. I suppose the grotto was beautiful, though I was too nervous to take much notice. The sunset caught the water beyond, filling the cave with shades of fire. The sea lapped gently at the entrance, and candles flickered amongst the damp rocks. My eye, however, went to the boulders rising from the sandy ground. Every inch of these was covered with the names of the Telerin dead. This was a sacred place, a place of mourning and remembrance, and it was not meant for me.

Two arcs of white driftwood chairs had been set out near the middle of the chamber. Olwë's family sat on one side, and my half-brothers and I sat opposite them. With them was, to my surprise, Ambassador Senindë. She had not worn Fëanárian scarlet, but she had quite obviously chosen to sit with the Noldorin delegation. It was undeniable what this meant. I turned to her and offered her a smile of gratitude. She responded with the distinctive Fëanárian salute, which resembles a Valarauko's horns, over her heart. I had seen my people do the same at my reinstatement. As I understood it, they believed I showed great courage in facing Gothmog alone. To remember my bravery, the Fëanárians invoked the Valaraukar in their salute. It was a sign of respect, meant to encourage and inspire. That Senindë used it then meant a great deal to me, more than perhaps even she, with her gracious spirit, knew.

Olwë introduced me kindly enough, and at once, the dull roar of voices in the harbor died away. The silence was more terrifying still, for I knew that only I could now fill it with my voice. My throat went dust-dry as I stepped up to center of the grotto; I wished dearly that I had thought to bring a waterskin. I found I was not prepared to meet the people's eyes, so I looked instead at Eärwen, who had come to meet me from her side of the chamber. She looked me over for a moment, then held out both her hands to me. I understood then that the name of this memorial - the Broken Circle - did not refer to the Kinslaying, the breaking of our peace and hearts and lives. By reaching out to me, Eärwen indicated her willingness to reconcile. She was breaking the last piece of the circle of bitterness the Kinslaying engendered. Now I had to reciprocate.

“If you come in peace, I will hear your words,” she said formally. In a whisper, she added, “Let me see the man I knew. Please.”

I swallowed hard and blinked to keep my vision from blurring. I had to do this. I had to, or else Olwë would never accept my desire to reconcile. My attempt to make peace would go down in history as a failure, and the Teleri would never trust me or mine again. Moringotto would find us divided when he came again, and divided, we would fall…

No. I could not afford to frighten myself away. I had to focus, focus enough to speak my regrets. That was all I had to do.

I opened my mouth, willing my voice to function. No sound came forth. Shaking my head firmly, I tried again, but still there was no sound. My cheeks burning, I tried a third time, and to no avail.

Resisting the urge to turn and flee back, I forced myself to be logical. What was stopping me? Was it as simple as needing a drink of water, or was it something worse?

I couldn't bring myself to look at my half-brothers. If I saw the concern that was undoubtedly in their faces, I knew I would lose my nerve. With nowhere else to turn, I looked up at the Teleri gathered before me. There were people of every age and social standing: mothers with little children, groups of friends not much past their majority, fishers with their wide sun hats still on their heads, nobles wearing pearls and sapphires and silks. Around the perimeter, soldiers were keeping watch. Even they had obeyed Olwë's order and come unarmed to hear me speak, though some looked none too pleased about it. All were watching me, some with wariness in their faces, others with hope, all expectant. I wished dearly that I had written something down over the summer.

And then I looked out to the mouth of the grotto and saw the little shell girl sitting primly on the sandy ground. Her face was upturned to mine, nothing in her eyes but the absolute trust she had shown me the previous night. She smiled and lightly touched her chest, and I knew exactly what she meant.

A thought occurred to me then: if I were that girl, what would I want to hear? What did any of the Teleri want to hear? They had gathered to listen to the first words Finwë's heir had spoken to them since he stole their ships and slew their mariners. What would I want, were I in their position?

And what if I _had_ written down my remarks in advance? If I were a Teler, would I be content to hear an apology read with stiff, practiced formality? Would I believe the words? Would they improve my opinion of Curufinwë Fëanáro? "No," was the answer to all these questions, I decided. And suddenly, I knew what I had to do. It was better that I improvise, better that I speak from the heart. What I said mattered less than how I said it.

I looked down at the little girl, wishing I had her faith. My left leg was shaking - only my left. For whatever reason, my left leg alone shook when I was nervous, giving away my anxiety. I tucked my hands behind my back to hide them, for they were trembling as well. I drew a deep, steadying breath to calm my racing heart. Then I took Eärwen's hands. I would keep my eyes on her calm blue ones, I decided, but I would speak to all the Teleri.

"My dear people, I was invited here to offer you my sorrows for the violence of so many years ago," I began. "I shall do so, but I confess to you that I have no formal remarks to make." Each word was very deliberate so that there could be no mistake. The shocked murmuring began at once. I could practically feel the look of horror on Nolofinwë's face, but I had to see this through to the end.

I swallowed hard and started again.

"People of Alqualondë, little good would come of my reciting an apology. I might as well have sent your good king an offer of reconciliation and allowed you to read it for yourselves. Instead, I intend to let you hear the words in my heart tonight, in all their imperfection. You may reflect upon them as you see fit.

"Ages ago, amidst the darkest of all nights, my people brought atrocity upon this fair city. It was the product of fear and uncertainty rather than malice, but an atrocity nonetheless. For the part that the Noldor played in it, I am truly, deeply sorry, and for my own part yet more so. Though I did not order that your people be slain, I did indeed command that your ships be taken. I fear that this command, in the hands of frightened soldiers, led directly to the death that was dealt here. I can offer you only my regrets in return, and my wish to undo it all, in vain though it is."

This went over well enough, even eliciting a few approving nods, but I could not relax. Of course they wanted to hear me confess my wrongs; my olive branch, on the other hand, might not be so easily accepted.

Eärwen's chest was rising and falling shallowly beneath her gown. I realized then that she more than anyone, as my childhood friend, would be looking to see that I had changed. My next words, then, must be especially for her.

"I met with your most gracious ambassador in Formenos this summer," I said. "I told her that I ought to have understood how much your ships meant to you. I know what it means to create a masterwork in which one's heart may rest. I could not surrender the Silmarilli even to save the light of Valinor; how could I expect you to do much the same? Of course you fought. Of course we all fought, for our lives and our treasures, and we paid in blood. I grieve for that as I grieve for little else."

Eärwen drew in a breath, her lips parting, and she squeezed my hands tighter. She had known me all my life, and she knew now how significant this admission was for me.

Taking courage from her, I turned my head to address the people. "A second tragedy occurred that night, and it lingered long after our dead returned from Mandos. It takes the form of bitterness between the Noldor and the Teleri, which has, I am told, much healed since my death. Your ambassador, your princess, and all you with grace in your hearts are to be commended for it. It was Her Excellency Senindë who first extended the hand of peace to me, and I owe her an eternal debt of gratitude. However, I sense that my visit has brought discord to this city. Given the gravity of my actions, I understand this entirely, but I also find it to be terribly sad. I do not wish to be the source of division between our peoples. I do not wish to renew old hurts when we have every reason to heal. I do not wish to revive the shadow of the past. I do not wish that for the Noldor, and I do not wish it for you. I wish, so many ages later, to end this suffering - break this circle - for good."

The first arrow flew over my left shoulder and clattered to the ground just as I finished my sentence.

The people saw it happen; that was plain from the startled murmurs that ran through the crowd. They were turning about, trying to see who had shot at me. Panic began to take hold as I remembered the creeping cold of Lord Turindo's poison in my veins. No one was permitted to come armed into the city; how could this have happened? Someone could have snuck a bow in under a cloak, I supposed, but…did anyone in Alqualondë truly hate me so? Much as I wished to rule out assassination, I could not. It was a better explanation than most I could come up with.

I was trembling from head to foot, but I knew I could not stop, not now that I had come so far. I raised my hand for silence, praying that an arrow would not bury itself in my palm as I did so.

"Once we were friends, were we not? We shared our crafts, our food, our music with each other. My people helped yours build this and beautify this city, and gladly. I see you use lamps of Noldorin design, but your fine Telerin silver magnifies their beauty. Audiences have praised the glorious combination of Noldorin music and Telerin voices. We've traded and learned together for ages, always to our mutual enrichment."

This elicited gentle smiles, which gave me the heart to go on.

"My good people, we are not meant to be divided. We complement each other so very well, and all we do is yet more beautiful when we do it together. How many of you learned language and lore in Tirion when you were young? How many of you feasted with us in our city, perhaps met future friends and colleagues? I bitterly regret betraying all that. I spoke to Prince Fárion just last night of my memories of your boat races and your bonfires. I do not exaggerate when I say that this city was a place of freedom and solace for me in my youth, and many of the Noldor agree. I would see those days renewed. I wish to be the one to dispel the last shadows of your doubt. I wish for our children to learn and play together, to race boats and write music and craft beautiful things, to make new discoveries and fall in love. And I swear to you, I will protect the peace you have achieved since my death - now and always. I will do all in my power to ensure this city is defended when Moringotto comes again.

"Now, I do not - would never - ask you to forget what happened here. We ought to remember it always, that we may prevent its like from happening again. A very wise soldier - your own Raumolírë of the Vanguard, in fact - "

There was an appreciative buzz at this, and I began to relax. I would be all right, I would be all right…

"Raumolírë told me quite truthfully that the Dark Lord is as I speak preparing to make his return. Do you know what his most powerful weapon is, my friends? It is neither his hell-wrought mace nor his vast armies nor his Valarin strength. It is his ability to play upon our doubts and divisions, to magnify them until we cannot fight back. The Noldor learned that to their great sorrow ages ago. Moringotto planted lies in the fertile soil of our discord, then watched as we made them grow. Had the Noldor been united, Moringotto might not have destroyed half of Beleriand before he finally fell.

"The Dark Lord is subtle, people of Alqualondë. He adds a few drops of poison to the wine, and his enemies drink and destroy themselves, too blind with hatred to recognize their true foe. If he returns to find us divided, he will magnify our grudges, and we will not realize it until it's too late. The chasm between us will be impassable, and thus divided we will fall. Thus I say to you: let us no longer be Teleri and Noldor, but -"

The second arrow clipped my upper arm, eliciting a cry as blood began to stain my sleeve scarlet. The pain was so sharp and cold that it dizzied me. My skin was going clammy, and I had to steady myself against Eärwen to keep from dropping to my knees. I struggled to maintain control of my thoughts against a rising tide of panic. Someone had shot at me not once, but twice. Someone most certainly wanted to end my speech, perhaps even my life. But who would -

No. I could not think about that. I was so close to finishing.

I heard as if from a great distance the sound of Nolofinwë leaping to his feet, calling my name. In contrast, the crowd below was strangely silent, perhaps too shocked to react. They might not love me, but I knew they had no desire to see the color of my blood.

I could not lose them now. I could manage a few more sentences.

I swallowed the bile in my throat, pressed one hand to my wound, and summoned as much strength as I could manage.

"Let us be no longer Noldor and Teleri," I repeated, "but one people. Let us release our suffering, for our sake and for the sake of our children. I swear to you I do not come here as an enemy to reopen your wounds. If we cannot yet be friends, then let us at least be allies against the threat of the Dark Lord. When he comes again, let him find not followers of Fëanáro or of Olwë, but children of Eru and children of light."

I had meant to say more, but the pain in my arm had made my knees weak. I doubted I could stay on my feet much longer. Amidst calls of assent, I made a bow of gratitude and walked to a secluded tunnel at the back of the grotto. I would have to excuse myself from the rest of the Rindë Rácina.

I let myself collapse, shaking, as soon as I felt myself hidden. Olwë stayed behind, and I heard him ordering his guards to find the unknown archer. Everyone else was at my side at once. Fárion tucked his cloak around me to stave off the chilling shock and pain, then settled himself beside me to lean on. Eärwen had wisely picked up the arrow that had fallen nearest her, and Senindë was examining it for traces of poison. Nolofinwë, meanwhile, was probing the tear in my upper arm with careful, capable fingers. It was only the throbbing of my wound that kept me from succumbing to numb disbelief. I could accept that someone had wanted to stop my speech, but what if this was another assassination attempt? I did not think I could endure that, not when I had finally begun to believe I was doing some good.

"It isn't deep," Nolofinwë pronounced at last, with a poorly disguised sigh of relief.

"No, but it hurts like mad," I hissed through gritted teeth.

"You were wonderful, though," said Arafinwë, ever the optimist. "I'm sure you got through to them. You were shot at twice, and you kept speaking, for goodness' sake!"

"I'm perfectly aware of what happened, Arafinwë," I retorted, with no real bite to my voice. The adrenaline that had kept me on my feet until now was fading away, leaving me aching and disheartened. Why had this happened? Why did something always happen just when I had found happiness? Was I still under the Doom of the Noldor? I certainly felt cursed.

Eärwen knelt down beside me, gently upturning my face to hers. "Don't be so sad, my old friend," she said. "You did a good, brave thing today, and my people will not overlook it."

Hísealë drew up behind her daughter, running her fingers through Eärwen's silver hair. "For once we agree, daughter of mine," she said. "You have shown your character today, Finwion, and I was pleased by what I saw."

I knew this was the highest compliment I would ever receive from her, at least for the immediate future. Under any other circumstances, I would have been elated at her praise and her children's. I would have rejoiced at navigating such a delicate situation with relative success and slept the sleep of the deeply contented. As it was, my joy was tainted by my throbbing wound and the arrow that lay, so innocently now, in Senindë's hands.

"Well, I would like to have a second healer confirm it, but I can find no trace of poison on the arrowhead," said the ambassador presently. This drew a grateful exhale from us all, not least of all from me. So my attacker had not meant to poison me. It was small comfort, but at least it was something.

"You speak very well, Fëanáro," Senindë went on. "I couldn't have managed it better myself."

"'It's a shame Calairon wasn't here to hear it," said Fárion. "It might have done him good."

There was a pause in which Fárion's innocent words fell into silence. Then, all at once, realization struck us with the force of a blow to the stomach.

Calairon. The archer was Calairon.

"No," said Arafinwë, louder than necessary. "No, the prince would never…" He trailed off, looking desperately into each of our faces, begging us to deny it.

Hísealë had gone rigid, one hand pressed to her heart. "He did leave the palace early this morning, but I…" she faltered, her queenly grace quite gone. "I assumed he… He was so upset at dinner last night. He didn't wish to hear you speak. When he left his morning, I didn't have the heart to find him and force him to attend. I thought it best to let him be until he was ready…"

Fárion had turned as white as I knew I must be. "Last night, before dinner, Calairon told Atar that he feared Fëanáro meant to deceive us. He begged Atar not to let Fëanáro speak, but Atar wouldn't hear it." He recited this in a flat, detached sort of way, as though he could not believe it was his own brother of whom he spoke.

"Well," said Eärwen, with practiced calm born of Vanguard service and royal rule, "if it was Calairon, then he didn't mean to kill you. My brother is among the finest archers in Alqualondë. If he had wanted you dead, he wouldn't have missed the first time, much less the second. No, I suspect that the first arrow was a warning, and the second was a command. He wished to stop you speaking; he did not wish to spill your blood."

Hísealë knelt in a rustle of silk and took my hands. I was astonished to see that there were traces of tears in her icy blue eyes.

"I confess that I too doubted your intentions when first you came here," she said breathlessly, "but I never suspected you of plotting a fourth Kinslaying while feigning peace. My son, he...he's been very troubled since his return from Mandos. At times he doesn't think clearly…"

"Peace, my lady. I don't blame him," I told her, and I meant it. My thoughts had changed quite drastically now that my attacker had a name and a face. Here was not a ruthless, vengeful assassin, but a frightened young Reborn still trying to make sense of his death. That put things in a very different light indeed. But what was I to do about it? Calairon was grieving beyond reason, and he hated me. As much as my heart ached for him, I knew he would not hear anything I had to say.

My thoughts were interrupted. At that moment Olwë returned to the alcove, leading a shorter, slimmer figure. The captive's head was bowed so low that I could not make out his face.

"Well, Finwion," said the Telerin king, irony, anger, and sorrow mingling in his voice, "it seems I have your archer. I believe you owe Prince Fëanáro an explanation, _my son_."

Olwë's charge lifted his head then, and I saw that it was Calairon indeed, his face pale and streaked with tears. There was no hatred in his blue eyes now, only fear, and beneath that, a deep, consuming need for reassurance. I knew that feeling; I had felt it more times than I could count since my own rebirth. My heart was moved with pity for him, just as it was the previous night. How could I force him to stand trial before me this way? That would only deepen his fear of me and my people.

"Prince Calairon owes me nothing," I said steadily. "I would ask that you let him rest."

Calairon made a strangled sound of disbelief, blinking tears from wide, pained eyes that were trying so hard to glare at me. Olwë, too, was staring incredulously at me. He should have denounced me for telling him what to do with his son, but he held his tongue. There was a long, tense silence. Then at the last, Olwë released his grip on Calairon. The prince took one last look at me and disappeared into the tunnels beyond the grotto as quickly as he could. I wanted nothing more than to take him in my arms and hold him, as I would do for my sons, until his hurts were gone, but I dared not.

The silence that followed was almost palpable. Finally, Olwë asked me softly, "Why did you release him? He violated my decree and brought a weapon to a place of peace. He attacked you, unarmed as you were. He ought to tell you why, at the very least."

"He himself may not know why," I said. Suddenly, the pain in my arm was not so noticeable. It had been supplanted by a much deeper pain in my heart. "Forgive my insolence, my lord, but you don't know what it is to suffer a violent death. You don't know how it feels to be reborn into a world utterly different from the one you left behind. I do. I did not myself take your son's life all those years ago, but that makes no difference to him. My presence awakens memories he doesn't know how to manage. I understand this: I spent much of the summer in Formenos, where my father was murdered, and it was no easy task for me to lay my memories to rest. I know what torments your son, my lord. If he would only hear me, perhaps I could be of some help to him."

Olwë considered this in silence. I knew that as deeply as I grieved for Calairon, his pain must be a thousand times worse. There is nothing so terrible as the helplessness of a father who cannot comfort his children.

"Perhaps you could be," he said at last. His voice was hoarse with the effort of containing his own pain, but there was a note of appraisal there as well. "Tell me, Finwion, how did you come to exchange pride and wrath for wisdom and mercy?"

"Pride and wrath killed my sons, my lord," I told him. "Wisdom might have saved them. My mercy repays, in some small way, all those who have shown mercy to me."


	27. Bridges

Olwë's court healer later confirmed that Calairon's arrow had not been poisoned. After tending to my wound, she insisted that I lie down quietly for a while. Quiet was the last thing I found, but the disturbances were welcome, for they came in the form of my wife and sons. All were concerned, though I reassured them that my wound was not serious and I only needed a bit of rest. The sling binding my injured arm kept me from embracing them - to my regret, for I knew they could have used it. Tyelkormo and Carnistir in particular looked pale and guilty, though why, I was not sure.

The little shell girl also visited me. This time she came with her mother, whose gentle voice soothed my heart in an instant. "You were very brave today, Your Highness," she said. "The people will not forget it, and nor will I."

Full of gratitude, I shook my head. "No, dear lady. Your daughter is brave, not I. Not every Telerin child is willing to give Curufinwë Fëanáro her friendship."

By evening, I had grown restless, as was my wont. My spirits had lifted and I was feeling stronger, so I decided to return to the grotto and pay my respects. I would have done so at the Rindë Rácina if not for my wound, and I knew no one thought ill of me for leaving the ceremony early. My speech had made both my sorrows and my hopes plain. Still, it seemed unthinkable to depart from Alqualondë without revisiting the grotto.

This shrine had multiple entrances, both outside and inside. One of these was a set of ancient stairs at the far end of Olwë's throne room, which was mercifully empty tonight. I made my descent undisturbed into the quiet tunnels beneath the palace. The grotto, when I reached it, was dim and cool and damp. The sea whispered around the edges of the chamber, forming rivulets traversed by planks of white wood. Scores of candles lined the floor and the nooks and crannies of the walls, which gave the light an amber hue. Other than this, however, the room was largely unadorned. I quickly saw why: the walls themselves were the adornment. They were, as I scarcely noticed in all the anxiety of my speech, etched from floor to ceiling with names. Around them were carvings of all kinds: shells, stars, fish, flowers, even verses of poetry. Many looked to be the work of craftsmen, but others were cruder, as though made by the loved ones of the dead. All these people had likely been reborn by now, but that didn't seem to matter. That they had died at all was sorrow enough.

Deeply moved, I took a taper from a nearby basket, lit it, and knelt down to reflect. I smiled as my eyes fell upon an anonymous epitaph that reminded me of Senindë: "Servant of Eru, well done." Well done indeed. It was because of her tireless work for peace that I had been able to speak to the Teleri at all.

The sound of footsteps scratching on the sandy floor brought me out of my thoughts. Then suddenly, a cold voice, soft and deadly, demanded, "How dare you come back here? How dare you defile this place with your false penitence?"

I whipped around, startled, and found myself looking into the Calairon's eyes. They were sharp as chips of ice and just as cold. Past that, however, there was no hate, only anguish.

I made my decision in the space of a moment. No matter what I had to do, I would end this tonight.

Standing slowly, I raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I come only to remember. My penitence is real."

For a moment, Calairon looked as though he might be considering this, but then his face contorted and he shook his head. "You are lying to me as you lied to my people today!"

"I did not lie to the Teleri, and I am not lying to you."

Calairon had been fragile since last night's dinner, and my steady voice only seemed to aggravate him. It was all becoming too much for him: I could see that in his wild eyes. Presently he let out a strangled cry and snatched a dagger from his belt, pointing it at me. "Tell me one more treacherous falsehood, and I swear I will – I will…"

"You'll kill me? Do it, then. Avenge your people. Avenge yourself."

I had pushed him far enough, I knew. Calairon needed to release his tangled emotions, and I had brought him to the cusp of that moment. The question now was, had I pushed him _too_ far and endangered my own life? Was I right to assume that Calairon's memories of the First Kinslaying would stay his hand? Would he be less likely to attack me because he had stood on the opposite end of the blade himself?

I lowered my hands to my sides so that I was quite defenseless and prayed I was not about to die.

Calairon was plainly stunned by my bold statement. He went very white and stood rooted to the spot for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he began to walk towards me, dagger raised. The tension in the air was so thick it was difficult to breathe. The only sound in the room was that of Calairon's harsh breathing, though it seemed he must be able to hear my heart hammering frantically as well. In that moment, I thought I knew how Nolofinwë had felt as he stood in Atar's council hall at the point of my sword, not knowing when or if death might come.

Calairon proved determined. The point of his dagger sat quivering at my throat before he suddenly went limp and the blade fell from his hand. I caught him as his knees gave out, lowering us both carefully to the sandy floor. He tried once to throw me off, so violently that I nearly lost hold of him, but after that, the strength went out of him. He pressed his head against my shoulder and wept, shuddering with grief too long repressed. Whether I had finally proven that I meant no harm or he was simply too tired to fight, I could not say. All that mattered to me was that I had my arms around this frightened young man, and I could comfort him. Disregarding the pain as I removed my wounded arm from its sling, I drew Calairon close and embraced him as I would my sons.

He let me hold him for a long while, longer than I had thought possible. Even when the waves of anguish ceased to break over him, he did not try to free himself. He leaned quietly against me, quite exhausted, while I held his shoulders as my father had so often done for me. It struck me how very young he looked. I was older than Eärwen, and Calairon was born years after her, long enough he could nearly be my son. He must have been only a bit older than Maitimo at the time of the First Kinslaying. I did not dwell on this. It was not something I wanted to think about.

At last, Calairon lifted his head and regarded me wearily through red-rimmed eyes.

"Are you up to telling me what frightens you so?" I asked him.

He gave me no answer, but I saw his hand drift to his stomach, where I was certain he had been fatally wounded.

"How did you die?" I asked him. "That has everything to do with it, I think."

The primal, wounded-animal fear flickered back to life in Calairon's tired eyes. He shook his head mutely.

"It may help you to put it into words, you know, if you feel comfortable."

The young prince shook his head again, muttering hoarsely, "I…cannot."

I knew it would do no good to press him further. This was a choice he had to make on his own, so I allowed silence to enfold us once more. I did not, however, release the gentle pressure of my hand on his shoulder. As long as Calairon did not reject my comfort, I would continue to give it.

Some time passed in this way. Then, quite unexpectedly, Calairon spoke.

"I was with my guard, defending my father's flagship," he said. His voice was carefully measured, and I could tell he was exerting every ounce of control he possessed to tell the tale. "Carnistir had gotten separated from his men, and a few of my soldiers had him surrounded. They meant to kill him, to throw him into the harbor and let his armor pull him down. They would have done it, too, had Tyelkormo not spotted us and come to Carnistir's aid. Tyelkormo killed Sareär, the captain of my guard – ran him through and left him to bleed on the dock. While the others were distracted, one of Tyelkormo's men, he...he put his sword in my stomach and…"

So that was why Tyelkormo and Carnistir had looked so guilty when they came to visit me! They must have thought that their presence had aggravated Calairon's memories and provoked him into shooting me.

Calairon was trembling visibly by now, his hands clenching and unclenching. I had heard all I needed to hear; there was no need to distress him further. I silenced him with a squeeze of my hand on his shoulder. He swallowed hard and pushed my hand away so that he could go on. "Sareär was guarding the armory this afternoon," he said. The words were coming faster now, as though he feared he would lose his nerve. "He did not like you and your sons being in the city, but he wanted to hear you speak, to give you one chance to redeem yourself. Even so, I...I convinced him to steal a bow from the armory and help me slip it into the city proper. He said I had gone too far. He knew I wanted to stop you speaking, and he didn't want to help me, but he did it all the same. He's so loyal to me, loyal to the death. Are you...going to tell my father he helped me shoot you?"

So the conspiracy now stood revealed. I was relieved to hear that it had not been an assassination attempt, merely the product of fear and a misguided sense of duty. No, I would tell Olwë nothing of it. He did not need to know.

"Hush, child," I said gently. "Rest assured that your father will hear nothing from me." Calairon looked relieved enough to faint, so I tightened my grip on his shoulder and went on. "My presence here brings back terrible memories for you, I see. You died on another's sword, but I am forever linked with the First Kinslaying in your mind all the same, no? You know, I never ordered my soldiers to...well, never mind; that's no excuse. What I mean to say is that I understand what it means to die a violent death."

I raised my right arm so that the loose sleeve of my robe fell back. It bared the thin, white burn scars left by a Valaraukan whip that had splintered my armor.

Calairon let out a soft gasp. "Is that where the Valaraukar…?"

"Yes, it is. The Allfather could easily have remade my _hröa_ without such scars, but He left them to remind me not to be reckless. The pain you feel in your stomach when you think of your death is a different kind of scar. I suspect it has far more to do with your own fears than the Allfather's intervention. It may well cease to hurt you if you make your peace with the past."

Suddenly, Calairon's tired face came alight with mingled fury and anguish. He broke my grip with a strength that startled me and leapt to his feet.

"And how should I do that?" he demanded, his voice ringing off the damp stone walls. "You say you understand what it is to die in battle, and yet you - you died at the hands of the enemy! The Valaraukar are demons! No Elda dead or alive would think twice about hating Gothmog, would they? But I, I was killed by _people_ \- people with hearts and minds and lives just like mine, people who grieved as I grieved and loved as I loved! Hating them isn't as simple as hating a Valarauko or an orc, Fëanáro! And you - you're the worst of all. You attack my people, steal our ships, then return ages later to speak to us with kindness and honor… What are you? Are you a saint or a sinner? What am I to make of it? Eru, what am I to make of it?"

Calairon sank back to the ground, burying his face in his hands. I knew from the way his shoulders shook that was weeping again. I put my arm around him tentatively, then more firmly when he did not resist. It seemed he so desperately needed comfort that he did not very much care where it came from.

What was he to make of it indeed? As thankful as I was that he had finally gotten to the heart of the matter, I was uncertain what to tell him. His were questions that I had grappled with myself, and I was not at all sure that I had arrived at any answers.

I thought for a long while, while Calairon pulled himself back to some semblance of calm. Finally, I chose some careful words. "You were right to say that your enemies were people just like you. Many of them, I'm sure, are still as haunted as I am by what happened that night. Whether you take them back into your heart is entirely up to you. When you feel ready, perhaps you decide whom to hear out, whom to trust and whom to forgive.

"As for me, I see that you can't reconcile the Fëanáro who attacked your people with the Fëanáro who sits beside you now. I fear I will be of little help to you on that count, for I haven't yet reconciled them either. The Fëanáro of that night was the product of his own pride and grief, poisoned by the Dark Lord's lies. He is dead now, cast into the Void forever, I hope. The trouble is that now I...I'm not entirely certain what's left. I am not the Fëanáro I was when all was innocent and the Trees shone brightly. I am not the Fëanáro who drew steel on his brother and sacked this city, who swore the Oath and burned the ships. What am I, then? I don't know. A different Fëanáro altogether, perhaps. I'm still learning, Calairon, still trying to rebuild my life. I know what it is to be reborn into a strange new world, make no mistake. Everyone tells you that your memories are from ages ago, but to you they're from yesterday. It makes you feel lost, doesn't it? It gets easier, but you must have faith. Trust the One. Easier said than done, of course, but possible. Does that make any sense? I fear I've only confused you."

Calairon raised his head and looked at me curiously, tear tracks still glittering on his cheeks. "No, it...it does make sense. Fëanáro...do you ever feel that you're somehow...afraid to be alive?"

"Oh, yes. Hardly a day goes by, even now, when I don't wake expecting to find myself back in the Void. I can't tell you how many times I've felt that the Allfather must have made some mistake in restoring me to life. Well, the Allfather makes _no_ mistakes, Calairon. He returns no one to life who is not worthy of the gift. Trust in that. Nolofinwë told me this summer that to truly live, one must think only of now, not of the past or the future. I was afraid to do that, to let go of all that once defined me and build a new life. I'm still afraid, to be perfectly honest, but I'm learning. You can, too."

Calairon looked up at me, and beneath the wariness and the hurt in his eyes, there was the faintest glimmer of hope. "Can I?"

"Yes, child. If this kinslayer and oath-maker can have a second chance at happiness, you most certainly can."

* * *

We sat in the grotto for a while longer, amongst memories that held both grief and hope, until Calairon felt strong enough to stand. He avoided my gaze as we walked back to his chambers, but he did consent to lace his arm through mine for support. We were far from friends, I knew, and yet we were closer to it than we had been two days ago. We had come very far in one night. It was no wonder that Calairon was so exhausted. Truth be told, I was entirely worn out myself.

I stood by while Calairon fell into bed, fully clothed, with the air of one who is utterly spent. I did not dare to press my luck and sit with him, much though I wanted to. The young prince had already been pushed to the breaking point tonight. The last thing I wanted was to shatter our fragile truce so soon. Thus, I kept my distance and my silence as Calairon burrowed into his blankets and rolled over to face away from me. I was on the point of quietly exiting the room when I heard him mutter, "I never imagined you could be so gentle, Fëanáro."

The iciness was so completely gone from Calairon's voice that it made me blink in surprise. Was this his way of thanking me? I thought it might be. I felt hope flicker anew within me, and I could not stop a smile from touching my lips.

"If you need anything, I won't be far away," I told him. With that, I shut the door quietly behind me and made my way back to my own chambers, my heart considerably lighter than it had been that morning. I allowed myself to breathe freely for the first time since receiving Olwë's summons. I had navigated dangerous waters with the royal family, I had reached the hearts of the Teleri with my speech, and I had even managed to forge a tentative trust with Calairon. Even I, cynical as I was, believed that this constituted success. I could rest now, and rest well.

Nerdanel was curled up in bed when I reached our room, her copper hair bright against the pillows even in the darkness. I took care to change quietly into my nightclothes, for I knew my wife to be a light sleeper at the best of times. Her time with the Vanguard had heightened her vigilance, and now, even the slightest noise could rouse her from slumber. Still, my injured arm was throbbing again, and that in combination with my fatigue made me clumsy. I was apparently not careful enough. As I sat down on the edge of the bed, Nerdanel stirred and looked up at me. Her eyes were clear and alert even with sleep still clinging to her body – another effect of her military experience, I supposed.

"What have you been up to?" she murmured.

I let my breath go out in a heavy sigh. "Just...tying up loose ends, Istyë. It's a terribly long story, I fear. I doubt I'm capable of telling it at the moment."

"Mm." She took my hand and drew me gently down beside her, nestling her head on my uninjured shoulder. "Were you successful, at least?"

"I daresay I was," I said, and in the darkness, I smiled.


	28. Crescent

On the morning after the Broken Circle, no member of Olwë's family or mine rose from bed before midday. Indeed, servants who arose far earlier told us that all Alqualondë was quiet. Usually, the city bustled with vendors hawking fresh fish and pearls, mariners tending to their boats, and silversmiths settling commissions. It seemed that the Broken Circle had lifted a weight from more shoulders than mine, for that morning the haven put aside business and rested. Eru knew we all deserved to sleep late.

We broke our fast in Olwë's private study, which was far more comfortable than the dining room we'd eaten in two nights ago. No one seemed at all inclined to behave like royalty, for which I was grateful. It left me free to lounge in an armchair, put my feet up, and enjoy the plate of blueberry scones balanced in my lap. Nearby, Eärwen reclined with her head on her mother's shoulder – a rare sight, for I knew they were quite often at odds. Even Calairon's arrival stirred no tension, partly because he was more exhausted than we. He spoke not a word, but dropped into a chair and laid his head on the armrest. The previous night's events had clearly taken a toll on him: he was pale and drawn, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

I decided to test my luck, praying I would not reverse all the progress we had made last night. I knelt beside him and put my hand gently on his arm. "You should eat, young one. You will feel better."

Calairon did not respond, not that I had truly expected him to.

"I'll make you up a plate, then, and leave it here. You may eat when you feel ready and then go back to bed, if you like. No one will begrudge you that; I believe you could do with more sleep." Taking a few scones, some fresh fruit, and a cup of tea, I set the plate on the small table beside Calairon's chair. I risked giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before standing up. It seemed a good omen that he did not flinch away from me.

Olwë watched all this with a mixture of affection, sorrow, and wonder in his eyes. Presently he drew me to his side and bade me speak with him on his balcony. It was a lovely place, well-furnished with a divan and several wicker chairs. The scent of salt was in the air, and the midday sun threw a net of diamonds over the water. I leaned on the elegant white balustrade, letting the sea breeze tug at my hair while Olwë gathered his thoughts.

"Things have changed between you and my son, I see," he said, quirking an eyebrow. I could hear the veiled disbelief in his voice. "Pray tell how you worked that miracle."

"It's no miracle, my lord. He was honest with me, and I believe it did him good. Those arrows he shot were as much a cry for help as they were an attempt to stop me from speaking. If you will believe it, last night, after his anger had passed, your son put his head on my shoulder and well-nigh fell asleep. He didn't care who I was; he knew I was there to comfort him, and that was all that mattered. He needs care, and reassurance, and gentle guidance. Given that and some time, I believe he will heal."

Olwë eyed me critically for a long moment, considering my words. "You spoke truly," he murmured.

"My lord?"

"You told me yesterday that I did not know how to help Calairon manage his rebirth because I have never died. Nor has anyone else in my family. Is that why I could not see the source of my child's pain right before my eyes? I told him again and again to lay his griefs to rest without offering any guidance. How callous I must have seemed to him!"

"Oh, I don't think so. I know you love your son, and wish only for his happiness, and Calairon isn't angry with you. You don't share the experience of being reborn into a strange world and facing the people who ended your life. That isn't your fault. Given that, you tried as best you could to help your son. I believe he understands that."

Olwë was silent. He would never say so, not to me, but I sensed the relief and shame warring within him. On one hand, he was truly grateful that I had helped Calairon turn a corner. On the other, he felt he had failed as a father. I would have felt much the same, were our positions reversed. It is the natural instinct of every father to heal his children's hurts, or else to take them upon himself. When he cannot, the helplessness is unbearable. I knew that only too well.

"What, then, is your counsel?" asked Olwë. The massive effort it took for the Telerin king to shelve his pride and shame did not pass me unnoticed. It was salt in the wound to ask advice from me, I knew. Olwë had always thought me arrogant and careless and spoiled. In some ways, he was right.

"Love him," I said, in the simple words Lord Námo offered me when I asked how I might earn redemption. "Listen when he speaks, but allow him his silences. Comfort him in his times of fear and sorrow. You know this, my lord, as all fathers do. Most of all, do not constrain him to do or say anything before he's ready. Trust him to dictate the pace of his own healing and know his own heart. After last night, I believe he can do that."

Olwë regarded me steadily. I thought I saw something approving in his eyes. "Clearly, someone has taught you to turn your silver tongue to words of kindness rather than of wrath," he said. "I much prefer it that way. You have changed, Fëanáro son of Finwë. You are not the same man who demanded my ships all those ages ago."

"I should very much hope not!"

Olwë smiled then, the first true smile he had offered me since my coming to Alqualondë. "You don't hope in vain. What is this sudden light I see in you?"

I considered this. Many things had contributed to my change of heart, the Allfather's boundless love and Lord Námo's stubborn faith chief among them. But those were only the starting points of my journey. The true change had come from something else, something unlikely.

"Strangely enough, it was the darkest darkness known to this world," I said. I waited for the thrill of terror and cold that always ran through me at the thought of the Void, but it did not come. There was only a vague flutter in the pit of my stomach, dulled by the success of my speech and the many happy memories of that summer. I rested my elbows on the balustrade. "It forced me to look my wrongs squarely in the face and realize that I regretted them. When I made that choice, every bit of sinfulness and corruption in my soul became clear to me. To say that it was ungentle would be an understatement. It was like a bath of flame. It hurt - both the purification and the realization of what I had become."

I felt my stomach twist again, harder this time. I focused with purposeful intent on the sparkling sunlight.

"It also left me with a dilemma. You see, at the time of my death, sinfulness and corruption were all I had left. I rejected goodness with the death of my father. Goodness was painful; wickedness was a welcome respite from grief. With that wickedness gone, I had nothing."

I found myself considering the visions that tormented me in the darkness. Once I had thought them demons or ghosts, but later I realized I had made those terrors myself. They were ghosts of my own malice, stripped from me by the isolation of the Void, trying to claw their way back to my soul. It was not the Allfather or Lord Námo or even the Void that punished me. I punished myself.

"It frightened me at first," I went on, "the prospect of rebuilding Curufinwë Fëanáro. It frightens me still. Yet it's given me an opportunity to start from the beginning, put my past behind me, and determine my future for myself. I could never have come to that if not for the Void. My time there was necessary. Make no mistake - I hated every moment of it and wouldn’t wish it upon anyone – but through that darkness, I came back to the light."

Olwë was silent, looking at me as though he had never quite seen me before. "Quite a journey," he said softly. "No wonder you are so changed. What gave you the strength to endure?"

"Many things, but my family most of all. They were always on my mind. I pictured my sons reborn and happy, told myself stories about what they might be doing each day. It left me with no choice: if I was ever to see my family again, I _had_ to endure. Calairon will, too. If he needs a reason to fight, be that reason for him, or keep him close until he finds another."

The Telerin king canted his head. Mingled sorrow and hope flitted across his face. Then he tapped the balustrade decisively with both hands and said, "I must confess that I had my doubts about inviting you here, Finwion. Yet since your arrival, you have conducted yourself only with grace. I shall write to your father to tell him of what has happened here, and of the debt I owe you for what you've done for Calairon. No doubt Finwë will be very proud. He has every reason to be."

"I would hope so, my lord. I only acted as I thought he would."

Upon returning to Olwë's study, two things struck me. One was that Calairon was fast asleep in his armchair, covered in a throw, and the food I had left for him was gone. I could not keep a satisfied smile from spreading over my lips. The second thing occurred to me as I watched Olwë pull the blanket up over his son's shoulders: I had not thought of the Void in a very long time. Until that morning, it had frightened me too deeply, yet discussing it with Olwë seemed to have done me good. I thought I understood its purpose now. In place of its long shadow, my soul was indeed filled with a new and sudden light.

* * *

That evening was extraordinary. Even now I wonder whether words can truly capture all that I saw and felt, and the significance of what happened. Simple it seemed, but ever afterward the Teleri looked upon me with far less suspicion.

I had it in mind to go to the beach to watch the sunset, and I was on my way there when I met Calairon in the corridor. He was still a bit pale, but the day of rest seemed to have revived him greatly. Much to my relief, there were no tears on his face this time, no spasms of rage and pain. On the contrary, he offered a faint smile when he saw me rather than flinching away.

"My sister is putting the fleet out to harbor tonight," he said. His tone was quite calm, though too stiff to be entirely cordial. "Much of the court will be having dinner on board. She wishes you and your family to join us as well."

Calairon did not say what he thought of this extraordinary invitation.

This was a powerful symbolic gesture on Eärwen's part, and one I could not refuse. But how could I accept? The ships at anchor now were not the ones I stole, but still I knew it would feel almost blasphemous to step aboard. As I considered this, something about the phrase "my sister" struck me. I had never dwelt on it, but through her marriage to Arafinwë, Eärwen was indeed my sister as much as Calairon's. By the same token, that meant that Calairon and Fárion were my brothers. There was a strange thought. It placed my choices at the First Kinslaying in a light that I did not much like to contemplate. It also gave me double the reason to win Calairon's trust, perhaps even his friendship.

"Eärwen is very gracious. We will most certainly accept her offer," I told him, with more formality than was strictly necessary between two princes. An uncomfortable silence followed: the sort that comes of neither party knowing what to say, the sort I hated because it made me feel helpless. I became suddenly interested in the whorls in the marble floor to give my mind something to do.

To my surprise, it was Calairon who spoke at last. "Walk with me, Prince Fëanáro," he said. "There is something I wish you to see."

His decisiveness stunned me, and by the time I caught up with him, he had already slipped out one of the side gates of the palace. This portal led directly onto the beach, which glistened silver under the pale blue sky of early evening. The clouds spread across the heavens like broken rivers, their undersides tinged pink. The high, salt-scented wind whipped my hair into my face with every gust. To our right lay the mighty ocean, casting itself ceaselessly upon the shore. Here and there, a skimmer swooped down over the spray with remarkable precision, beak open to receive any fish in its path. On our left lay the dunes, dotted with grasses and scrubby trees. There were no quays here, no neat cobblestone and ordered driftwood planks. This section of the beach had never been tamed.

Calairon kept but a few feet of distance between us as we walked, our boots sinking slightly with every step. I was more impressed with him than I could say. It seemed extraordinary that he felt comfortable enough to walk so close to me, and more so, alone with me. For some moments, he spoke no word, but kept his eyes on the sea and the sea birds making their evening hunts. Despite his appearance, I knew Calairon was making a great effort to remain calm, and it was taking all his focus.

"Can you sing, Fëanáro?" he asked at last.

I blinked several times at this strange question. "My secondborn tells me so, though I'm not so certain myself."

Calairon grinned in spite of himself. "And do you play?"

"Oh, I can fiddle with a few instruments. Nothing compared to what you can do, I'm sure."

"Have you not studied music?"

"Not really; only a little as a child. When I was young, I thought music terribly temporary. I thought that songs died as soon as they ended, and no one remembered them afterward. My secondborn changed that opinion, of course. When Macalaurë sings, he is more than a mere conduit for the words and the notes. He...he becomes the music. I've seen him move his hands in the most beautiful patterns, as if tracing the Allfather's signature on this world. When he sings, his soul and his song are one. He lives in it, and it lives in him, and its echoes go on living long after the performance ends."

Even my clumsy explanation made it sound utterly rapturous. I could only imagine what Macalaurë experienced when he performed. I wondered if I would ever taste, even for a moment, the transcendence my secondborn found in music.

Calairon nodded thoughtfully. "We who sing and play fill silence with more than sound. Music speaks clearer than any words. It touches deeper, and its messages linger longer. You may well learn this before you leave our city."

I was beginning to wonder exactly what he meant by all this when a large brown pelican went into a spiraling dive. It struck the waves with a loud splash, startling us both, then ruffled its wings back into place and set about paddling for some unknown destination.

"From the sublime to the ridiculous!" I exclaimed.

Calairon chuckled, watching the pelican bob up and down. I took it as another small triumph in my efforts to win his trust. "They fly very well, in truth," he said, "much better than the gulls do. I would never think it of such an ungainly bird, but…sometimes I think wrongly."

I had the strangest impression that this comment was not directed at the pelican, but at me.

We had walked a good way down the beach when I began to see twisted shapes ahead of us, dark against the evening sky. The beach ahead of us was littered with dead trees, from the dunes to the lapping fringes of the waves. I knew we had reached the place Calairon wished me to see. He spoke not a word, but watched me gravely as I walked ahead to explore the bizarre, lifeless garden.

It was at once the strangest and most beautiful place I had ever seen. Whether the trees died there or swept in from other shores, I knew not, but their placement had no pattern. All had come to their resting places seemingly at random, the mark of the capricious artist whose name is Nature. They were bleached white by the sun and twisted by time, some grasping at the sky and others bowed over the water. The setting sun, passing through the boughs, threw knotty shadows on the sand that seemed strangely alive. The interplay of light and dark was striking. The artist in me could have sat and studied it for ages.

Then I noticed that some of the trees were not trees at all, but rather pieces of driftwood. Some were whole, but others were shattered, tufts of dune grass growing among their fragments. This struck me, bizarrely, as some kind of natural statuary.

From the dread that settled into my stomach, I thought I could guess the origin of those white planks. My knees went suddenly weak, and I made to sit down at the foot of one of the trees. Only the sudden impression that it would be disrespectful kept me from doing so. Whatever this place was, it held all the solemnity of the chapels of the Valar. There was power here, every bit as much as there was in those sacred halls.

"What is all this?" I asked Calairon in a hushed voice. He was still gazing at me, but his eyes were distant.

"My people name it only the Crescent, because of the shape of the beach," he said, his voice carefully measured. "No title can describe what this place means to us. The trees have been here for ages. They died when the water washed away the soil and left only sand. Even before the Kinslaying, this was a place of beauty and reflection. Now it's a graveyard as well, the dwelling place of memory. You've seen the driftwood lying here and there, I presume. It came from the ships you stole, Fëanáro – from those that broke up in the storm of Uinen's grief and drifted back to our shores."

I remembered that storm all too well. In the wake of the First Kinslaying, Ossë's wrath and Uinen's sorrow grew so great that the sea itself rose against the Noldor. The greater part of the stolen Telerin fleet was lost to us, and a number of my people with it.

So the driftwood was indeed a remnant of the Kinslaying, as I had dreaded, an unfading mark of tragedy. I did kneel then, dropping down at the water's edge. It seemed an appropriate posture.

Yet it did not seem that Calairon meant to bring me guilt. He drew up beside me and asked, "What is your artist's opinion?"

With a supreme effort, I wrenched myself back from the abyss I knew so well and focused on the question. I took in the tangled trees: their whiteness contrasted with the burning sky, the driftwood ornamented with dune grass and hardy yellow flowers, the dramatic interplay of sunlight and shadow. Casting back the veil of remorse, I tried to see it all through a craftsman's lens.

"It seems to me that Nature has taken it upon herself to confront what happened here," I said when I could speak. "She has used emblems of grief to make your shores more beautiful. See how she has reclaimed those planks of wood, adorning them with her grasses and her flowers. When the Teleri look at them now, they need not think of death, but rather of life its resilience."

"Aye, but not only the Teleri," said Calairon. His expression was unreadable as he gazed down the Crescent. "Look again."

At that moment, a sheet of cloud rolled back from the sun, and I saw gemstones sparkling amongst the trees and driftwood. Pearls and diamonds and rubies and sapphires all there were, turning the sand to a bed of light in the sunset. They were the jewels of the Noldor, I knew, a gift from ages past when Valinor was young and Moringotto's malice far away. Their dancing scintillations gave new life and luster to this place.

"I told them it was a waste," I murmured, shaking my head at my own arrogance. "All those ages ago, I told my people it was a waste to scatter good jewels here."

"And what do you say now? Did you not speak only yesterday of how the works of the Teleri and the Noldor complement each other? It seems Nature herself agrees with you. At first, I thought it a bitter irony that the sea should bring our shattered ships to rest beside the jewels of our betrayers, but now..." Calairon trailed off and knelt beside me, helpless with emotions that were still all too fresh.

"Now this is more than a place of remembrance," I finished for him, though my own throat was suddenly tight. "Now it stands as a symbol of peace and unity. May all who visit this place leave with hope in their hearts."

Calairon nodded, swallowing hard. "May it be so."

As if in answer, a V of pelicans soared overhead into the sunset. Suddenly, they did not seem ungainly at all, but every bit as graceful and powerful as the Eagles of Manwë.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Crescent is based on a real place - Boneyard Beach at Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge, South Carolina. There are no shipwrecks there, but there are lots of sun-bleached trees as I described here. I highly recommend you do an image search for this beautiful place!


	29. Peace

Fárion met us as we made our way back towards the docks. Calairon and I had spent a while in quiet reflection, and the sunset's radiance was fading from the sky. Fárion cocked his silver head at the sight of us walking side by side, then seemed to decide it was best not to ask. A broad grin spread across his face, half relief and half joy. "I had hoped to find you here," he said cheerfully. "Have you been at the Crescent? I was there myself earlier today."

"Calairon took me there," I said. "Never did I think to find the jewels of my people strewn among the wreckage of your ships. Our works are gone beyond our reach now, both your ships and my Silmarilli. I once thought that the works of hands would endure where all else failed. I thought they were the only things worth fighting for."

Fárion took my hands with his easy grace. "Nothing lasts forever in Arda Marred," he said. "Nothing ever will, not until the new world rises in the wake of the Last Battle. That world is worth fighting for. Until then... Well, the Teleri have a proverb: _The wise sailor trusts not the weather of the world, only his oars and anchor._ "

I knew what this meant. The works of Arda Marred were passing, and so it was best not to set one's heart on them. But family, fellowship, the Allfather - they could serve as oars should the wind fail, and anchors in case of a storm.

"Wisdom worth remembering," I told Fárion, "for me and all my folk. We do bind ourselves so deeply to our crafts. In a way, I admire your Telerin spontaneity. The Noldor paralyze themselves with plans and analysis – except when it matters, in my case."

Fárion let out a burst of laughter, then clapped a hand to his mouth, as though uncertain whether I was serious. Calairon only stared.

"Are you poking fun at your own death?" he asked, looking startled.

"I might as well. It has no power over me these days."

Calairon smiled a little, but I felt sobered. Calairon's death was not my own, and I knew he would never be able to laugh at it as I could at mine. No victim of the First Kinslaying would. All I could hope was that Calairon would make his peace.

"Telerin spontaneity is well and good," said Fárion, ever the first to sense when a conversation was drifting into melancholy waters. "It also means that dinner is never served at the same time twice. Eru knows when they will be ready for us on board the fleet. Come, let's have a fire."

"Do you trust me to make one?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We have the whole of the sea for water if you get out of hand," said Calairon.

This stunned me. I thanked Eru that Calairon's spirits were high enough for a bit of humor – even if it was at my expense.

We gathered driftwood and built a sizeable bonfire, large enough to beat back the evening chill and send sparks skittering down the beach. This made Calairon a bit nervous, but Fárion and I convinced him I had no intentions of burning his city. We settled back on the sand, laughing like the children we had not had a chance to be in far too long. With the last flare of sunset, we saw Ambassador Senindë dancing light as a feather in the surf, to a song only she could hear. She was as ethereally, wildly beautiful as I had been told - fire and light incarnate. She moved with such joyous abandon that I knew she was celebrating the reconciliation as much as I.

"Who is she, really? What is she?" I asked in wonder. "Nerdanel told me how she portrayed me in the ballet to commemorate the Darkening. That production wasn't so long after the First Kinslaying. Where did she find the grace to try to understand me?"

"No one knows," said Fárion. "She is blessed with wisdom and stubbornness in equal measure. Some say she has a Noldorin spirit."

"Like our sister," Calairon murmured.

"Speaking of Eärwen," said Fárion quickly, to dispel the serious mood, "I'm sure you don't know this, Fëanáro, but she offered Atar an ultimatum. You see, Atar didn't want you to come to Alqualondë, not even to offer your regrets. Eärwen was furious. For a long while she felt caught between the Teleri and the Noldor because of her marriage. After so many years of working to improve relations, you were the last piece. She couldn't bear for Atar to stand in your way. She threatened to move to Formenos in protest."

"She never said that! Did she?"

"She did, I heard it myself!" Fárion swore.

"You are a liar, Fárion son of Olwë!" I laughed, giving him a shove. "Eärwen is too shrewd to think that exiling herself with my most fervent allies would solve anything. If indeed she said what you claim, it was an empty threat and nothing more."

"Most likely, but Atar didn't know that," said Fárion. "It planted just enough doubt in his mind to convince him to relent. Small wonder, knowing my sister. You saw the way she came dressed for dinner on the night you arrived, all in red and gold. She is capable of anything. Amil always said that from the day Eärwen was born, she had a Noldo's heart in a Teler's body."

"Even so, we all know there is no finer tactician in the Vanguard," Calairon added. "When the Last Battle comes, the Teleri will look to her to guide them."

"We can talk of war when war comes," said Fárion, waving a hand as if to swat away a fly. "Tonight is for peace. Come, let's watch the stars come out. Fëanáro, would you connect them and make pictures for us like you used to?"

"If I've not lost my touch," I smiled. I lay back on the sand with a contented sigh. The other two soon followed, as though we were still young men without ages of hardship to burden us. Tonight's peace was hard-earned and long in coming, the product of countless years and struggles. It was well-deserved, and by Eru, I meant to enjoy it.

We lay there until the sky was that special shade of blue-black that only autumn nights can conjure. The air was perfectly clear for stargazing. Fárion gave avid requests, challenging me to draw ever more complex constellations: a cat, a parasol, a winging bird, a sailing ship, a king on his throne. Calairon could not see this last image, so I took his hand and lifted it to trace the lines I found between the stars. Never once did he tremble or give the slightest sign of fear. For a moment, I could believe that nothing had ever divided us, that the Kinslaying was a powerless nightmare. I think Fárion and even Calairon believed it too, for a little while. That was a miracle in itself.

We were rested and content when Eärwen at last came to fetch us for dinner. She wore silver and deep blue, pearls at her wrists and neck and sapphires in her hair. She was never one for tension, but still it was plain how much she had relaxed since the Broken Circle. The whole affair had weighed on her, as it had weighed on me.

Her fleet was beautifully decorated, every vessel festooned with strings of paper lanterns. Her elegant flagship flew both her colors and my own, proclaiming a unity which was growing but not yet quite flowering. Eärwen led us to this vessel, where we would dine with Ambassador Senindë and other members of court. Nerdanel, Nolofinwë, and Arafinwë were there as well, and all my sons, some of whom looked distinctly anxious at the prospect of setting foot on a Telerin vessel again. Like her red and gold gown, Eärwen's invitation to dine on her flagship carried political weight. That wasn't even to mention the memories it evoked. Even Macalaurë, who had been an ambassador to the Teleri for many years, was uncomfortable.

Several of the Teleri on board shared his discomfort. Some took my hand only reluctantly, or scarcely met my eyes when I made a bow. Disheartened, I drew Eärwen aside and told her, "I am upsetting your guests. Would it be rude of me to bow out of your invitation?"

"I wish you wouldn't," she said. You are here at my request. I captain this ship, and I want you here tonight."

I sighed helplessly. "But _why_?"

"You know why. I wish full healing for my peoples. I decided to forgive you long ago."

"I did nothing to deserve it until yesterday."

"You did not deserve it until yesterday, but I did. I was so tired of hurting. We were all tired of it. We deserved peace and healing for our own sake."

I found this very profound, though I was in no fit state to consider it. "How can I pay my debt to you?" I went on. "Your dead are all reborn. Will you allow me to prevent further deaths? Will this city be defensible when Moringotto returns?"

Eärwen looked curious. "Defensible? Yes, but only from the sea. If the enemy were to reach shore, the streets are so narrow that the fighting would be a slaughter."

"Then we must arm your ships with weapons of range."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I'll need to speak with my war council, but I welcome your aid. I expect we’ll work well together. We always got along…" Eärwen’s gaze fell, her shoulders stiffening. “Do you think that night would have been different if I had negotiated for the ships in my father’s place? I might have prevented the killing if –”

“Eärwen, don’t you dare,” I said firmly. “You bear no blame.”

She drew a steadying breath, then looked back up with new light in her eyes. “Well, we can still create a better future.”

“It seems you were doing that long before I was reborn.”

Just then, I caught the eye of the soldier Raumolírë, who was acting as Eärwen's escort. Unlike the day of my arrival, she carried no weapon. I was grateful for this show of trust in me.

"Begging your pardons, lords and ladies, but what frightens you so?" she asked the Teleri gathered on deck. "Our guests won't turn you stone!"

At any other time, this remark would have been insolent: the nobles on board far outranked Raumolírë. At that moment, however, it dispelled the tension. With a murmur of sheepish laughter, everyone relaxed. It was also then that Raumolírë drew me aside and offered me the first true smile of our acquaintance.

"I meant to tell you this before now, but in all the commotion…" she began. "I asked you to prove that you are a man of honor and fair judgment, a leader I could follow. You did so yesterday, son of Finwë. You spoke with courage and humility. Not only that, but... Well, word gets around the palace, and I've heard tell of the compassion you showed Prince Calairon. Not everyone would do that for someone who shot at them twice. You've shown your honor, sir - high honor indeed."

She took my forearm in a soldier's grip, a gesture of allies and equals.

"Now do you trust me to maintain that honor?" I asked her, half in jest, half with sincerity.

"That's another question entirely," Raumolírë laughed. "Only time knows the answer."

Her tone was light, and yet I kept her words with me for the rest of that night. I was very conscious that I was forging my future with the Teleri through every word I spoke and every move I made. Eärwen's supporters they might be, but they watched me cautiously all the same. I could not expect all of them to offer me Ambassador Senindë's transcendent forgiveness.

The atmosphere on board eased once everyone had food and drink in their bellies. Eärwen was not one to surround herself with self-serving politicians, and she had not done so tonight. Once the shock of seeing Fëanárians on their ships wore off, her courtiers became quite gracious. Much of this I owed to the little shell girl, whose gift hung about my neck in plain sight. All the Telerin diplomats noticed it, and they seemed to decide that it marked me as a friend.

There is something soothing about sitting on deck beneath the stars, feeling the sway of the waves, smelling the salt breeze, and watching the line between sea and sky disappear. We all felt it that night. The conversations over dinner were gentle and good-natured – mostly, we spoke of life. The Teleri told me of their advances in silversmithing and the skill of their music students. I spoke in turn of our summer at Formenos, the new symphony Macalaurë intended to premiere within the year, and, strangely, the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva. The Noldor did not speak openly of this memorial to each other, and never to the Vanyar or the Teleri. They knew of its existence, but beyond that, it was a private Noldorin affair. Still, the diplomats were curious, and I saw no reason to keep secrets from them. Let them know the depth of our grief and loyalty to our king. Let them understand why the Darkening drove us to madness.

I also addressed some strange rumors concerning that solemn feast.

"Do your people ride through the woods afterwards and set things on fire?" one of the women asked me.

I smiled, thinking of Cullasseth and her ardent desire to burn Gothmog's effigy. "They do," I confirmed. "I've no doubt they enjoy it, but it's all quite controlled, you understand. More of a rite of passage than an act of arson."

The woman smiled graciously, but I sensed she was not convinced. None but my loyalists would truly understand the deep Fëanárian reverence for fire. Its symbolism was complex and ancient. It stood for light, courage, and creation. It was a bringer of both life and death, the source of the great circle that bound all my followers.

Subtle political maneuvers were made throughout the evening. That was only natural, but the most daring of these undoubtedly came from Raumolírë. As the meal ended, she tossed me a wooden rod and invited me to spar with her. She thought a demonstration of our combat skills might interest the court. At first, I questioned her sanity. How on earth would this help me assure the Teleri of my peaceful intentions? But as our wooden weapons clattered, I realized what the captain of the guard was doing: she was showing her people how deeply she trusted me. This was a friendly duel, but nonetheless, she was allowing me to wield a weapon against her. I suspected she was also giving me an additional chance to prove my honor.

The duel showed me quite plainly why the Vanguard was so highly regarded. Raumolírë well-nigh defeated me. It was only through sheer brute strength that I forced the rod from her hand in the end.

"Well-fought, my lord," said the soldier with a grin, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "You have fine form."

"As do you," I conceded, and I meant it. "I did not look to find such strength in one so small and slender. Your enemies will be more surprised, and unpleasantly so."

"Let us hope so," said Raumolírë. Taking the glass of warm cider she was offered, she drank to me. I knew by the light in her eyes that she could sense my gratitude.

It was nearly midnight by the time conversation dwindled to a drowsy murmur. All semblance of formality had fallen away. The Telerin courtiers milled about, sharing drinks with my sons, seeking Macalaurë's musical opinions. Tyelkormo and a Telerin gentlewoman were engrossed in watching tiny creatures the Teleri called "fire of the sea." They were aptly named, for they produced light within their bodies. When they came to the surface to feed, they appeared as little candles spread across the dark water. Other members of the party leaned against the deck railing, tracing patterns in the stars or watching their breath mist white in the air. Calairon, Fárion, Eärwen, and I stood on the upper deck, content to stand shoulder to shoulder in a show of solidarity. If ever there was a picture of peace, the Telerin court saw it that night.

At the last, Eärwen glanced at Fárion and then at me with a smile I had not seen since we were children. It was the sort that meant she was about to take me on a grand adventure. She had a last surprise for me; that was clear. She raised a hand, and at once the murmur of voices and the tinkle of glassware died away.

The voice arose so smoothly that I could not tell where the silence ended and the melody began. I was even more surprised to look to my left and find that the singer was Fárion.

He had a low voice, almost as low as my own - an unusual gift among the Teleri. I remembered the terrible vulnerability I felt at the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva, with naught but the burial drum to support my song. Knowing the courage Fárion must be exerting, even with his easy grace, my respect for him doubled.

The melody was a simple, ancient thing, dating back to the Years of the Trees. I remembered hearing it sung in the chapels of the Valar on feast days. The notes reverberated in the vaulted halls and echoed back stronger than ever. Lord Námo always began it with his deep, precise baritone. Then Lord Manwë would add the tenor harmony, then Lady Yavanna her rich alto. Finally Lady Varda's crystalline soprano would soar above. Even to my amateur's ear, it was the most ethereal, beautiful sound I had ever heard. I told my father once that surely, the song had captured the Timeless Halls themselves in music.

If the piece fascinated me as a child, it entranced me now. Soul by soul, everyone on board the fleet added their voices to the song. Each line was entirely independent of the others, and yet neither the rhythm nor the harmony ever wavered. Then the musicians on the flagship began to play, adding their flutes and viols and silver horns to the symphony. The melodic lines entwined and spiraled ceaselessly upwards as if to embrace the firmament. Every moment was a new musical idea. The vibrations traveled up through the wooden deck and into my chest, where they grew until I could not help but sing. Then, with a roll of the timpani, the song reached its grand climax. All the strands of melody came together into one transcendent line, a single phrase repeated over and over as it rang around the harbor - _ámen lavë sérë_.

_Grant us peace._

Fireworks burst over the water in time with the timpani. Blue and silver and red and gold they were, the colors of two royal houses united again. The trumpets doubled the sopranos on the soaring melody, high and clarion clear. In that moment I was certain I knew what joy sounded like.

The music was about me and within me, driving me to ever greater heights of song even as I felt my chest straining. I thought I knew then what Macalaurë felt each time he performed. It was wonderful and terrifying and so strong that it hurt, and it lifted me far above all my worldly concerns. It was not, I realized, unlike the Allfather's love I felt during my judgment. Suddenly, I understood what Calairon meant when he told me that music could touch deeper than any words. Never was peace conveyed more clearly than it was that night, and I knew the echoes would live in me forever.

Whatever happened next was a blur. Banners were raised, fireworks boomed, and my heart swelled to bursting with joy. I had given the Teleri my courage and my humility and my compassion, and in return they had given me their faith. Silently, I vowed to prove myself worthy of it. I wished that Moringotto might hear our song and despair, for that night, we stood united.

Never did I imagine that less than six months after my rebirth, I would stand on the deck of a Telerin ship and celebrate reconciliation. I was not naïve enough to think that was the end of my work in Alqualondë or that all my endeavors would be so successful. No, the future would not be fireworks and song by any means. As far as I had come, an even longer journey lay ahead of me. There would be many more struggles before the end, and perhaps failures as well. Still, I had proven to myself that it could be done: that forgiveness and mercy were real; that change was possible. That was the largest hurdle of all.

I accepted Eärwen's embrace.

The stories I would tell Atar when I returned home!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece performed on the Telerin fleet is inspired by the Dona Nobis Pacem ("Grant Us Peace") from J.S. Mach's Mass in B Minor. I'm partial to [ this recording.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkYvVDj3DSU) That's partly because I like the interpretation and partly because this chorus uses German Latin pronunciation, which is the way I learned this piece when I sang it. Feel free to ignore the music nerd in me.


	30. Coda - Meren Encuivië

My father approaches uncertainties in one of two ways: he is either unflinchingly optimistic and deaf to doubt, or else so anxious that he cannot be soothed. His relationship with me is a paradox of these two extremes. Though Atar's faith in me is absolute, his concern never sleeps.

I saw this plainly on the day I returned to Tirion. Olwë's letter explaining what happened in Alqualondë reached Atar before I did, and when he met me in the palace courtyard, I could see his concern. I scarcely said a word in greeting before he swept me into an embrace that would have knocked the air out of a grizzly bear.

"I've not been at war, you know," I said, my voice muffled against his chest.

"It seems you have, in a way," came Atar's reply.

I knew it would do no good to reason with him just yet. He was worried for me, and nothing would calm him until he had held me close a while and assured himself that I was well. As for me, I would never reject my father's embrace. His death had taught me, through countless empty tears, how much I wanted and needed his strong arms around me.

I allowed myself to relax and listen to his heartbeat for a moment before I said, "Did Olwë not explain?"

Atar released me then, looking me over with a critical eye. His gaze lingered on my shoulder. Olwë must have told him of Calairon's act of aggression, then, for my arm was no longer bound and my shirtsleeve covered the healing arrow-wound. I could see the concern in Atar's eyes. It was a shadow cast over their silver brightness, dulling the clarity I sought there when I could not find it in myself.

"He explained that you were shot," said Atar. His voice was carefully flat.

"It was little more than a graze," I said gently. "Did Olwë also tell you that it was not an assassination attempt?" I knew only too well what it was to fight for every scrap of honor left to my name. That was not a battle I wanted for Calairon, who deserved it far less than I.

Atar did not look reassured. "He did. I would never have expected it of that quiet son of his."

"Hold the prince blameless," I told him, firmly now. "You know what a chaotic business rebirth can be, even for one such as you. Calairon was but a young man when he died; he had never seen death as you did in the Hither Lands. There was nothing to prepare him for it, nor what comes after. Besides, it was not my life he wanted when he loosed his arrows, only my silence. He feared I meant to make the Teleri false promises of peace."

"Olwë indicated you were able to convince them otherwise."

"Calairon and I had a few long conversations, yes. I advised him as well as I could. He fears me no longer, at the very least. I believe he thought himself a lost cause, and I myself wavered, especially after..." I paused, wondering whether to tell Atar how the prince held me at knifepoint in the grotto shrine. Quickly, I decided against it: Atar was worried enough. "Well, suffice to say that the rest of the Teleri were more receptive to my words than he was at first."

"Ah," said Atar wryly, "as to _that_ , Fëanáro…" He gave my shoulders a gentle shake. I could hear the scolding beneath the concern. "It seems you scarcely gave your speech to the Teleri any thought at all."

A smile was attempting to lift the corners of Atar's mouth. He was pleased with me, I knew, but he meant to admonish me first, and that was that. I suspected he was making up for all the occasions in my previous life when he ought to have scolded me and did not.

I am not one to accept chastisement without a fight, particularly when I know I am right. To this end, I drew Atar to a fountain in the center of the courtyard and settled us both on the rim. A statue of Lady Nessa stood tall and graceful on the plinth, water pouring from her upraised palms for the stone fawns at her feet to drink.

I looked into Atar's face, into eyes so like mine. "What would you have done, were you in my place?" I asked. "The Teleri had every reason to be suspicious of me when I arrived in Alqualondë. They needed my sincerity. They needed me to confront the truth, not dance around it with empty formalities. I could never have done that had I read a formal statement. That would have demonstrated no more than my literacy."

Again, Atar's lips twitched as if to smile. "A dangerous gamble, Fëanáro."

"But a successful one."

"You could not have known it would be."

"It was the only way, Atar. There was no other viable choice."

Atar exhaled sharply. He saw my reasoning; he might even have made the same decision had he been in my place. "What if your words had failed you?" he pressed.

I drew back, feigning indignance. "When do my words ever fail me?"

I could afford to be flippant now that it was all behind me, but we both knew that my ordeal in Alqualondë had taken far more courage than I was letting on. I scarcely slept while I was in the city, and I knew the strain must show in my face even now. Presently, Atar took my face between his large, strong hands and kissed my brow. He was proud; I felt it like a warm cloak around my shoulders.

"Well, you seem to have avoided the first diplomatic crisis of your new life," he said with an affectionate smile. "Perhaps I shall make a proper king of you yet."

* * *

Compared to Alqualondë, the rest of that first year was rather quiet. We spent part of it helping the people of Formenos prepare for winter, which was always harsher in the north. Isolated in the wilderness, they were far from the markets of Tirion or Valmar. What they needed, they hunted, gathered, or crafted themselves, or else they waited for caravans to pass through. Once the snows started, though, it would be too difficult for the trade wagons to reach Formenos more than a scant few times. Then its people would be on their own.

Fortunately, the Formenos folk were resourceful. Over the ages, they had built an elaborate network of tunnels connecting their city to ours. Many of them ended beneath Tirion shops, and they allowed the people of Formenos to supplement their food and supplies all year round. Once winter set in and the trade caravans stopped coming, they became crucial to survival. To that end, an alliance of "tunnel runners" from both Tirion and Formenos had arisen. These folk traveled between the two cities throughout the winter, using the passages to collect necessities from Tirion and bring them to the fortress. Underground, there were no snows, and the worst of the cold could be avoided.

I saw the tunnels myself that year. Being of Noldorin make, they were no mere holes in the ground. They were well-lit with lampstones like mine, and they tapped regularly into the groundwater so that runners could refill their waterskins. In some places, they widened enough to allow cots and bunks to be set for rest. They also connected to certain homes along the way, where runners might stop to refresh their provisions and themselves. I was rarely prouder of my people and their ingenuity than when I served as a tunnel runner that winter. I believe it did them good to see their prince traveling with them as well. Atar always told me there was no surer way to a people's heart than to work alongside them.

The Eldar have a great love of feasts and festivals, and I became acquainted with many that year. There were regular exhibition battles in Tirion's arena, at some of which my people competed with the Nárendili - Maiar who could perfectly impersonate Valaraukar. As much as I wanted to participate, I was far too out of practice with a blade, so I contented myself with shouting my encouragement. The spectators partook of a curious phenomenon in which they all joined hands at critical moments of battle. I did not understand this until I felt the tingling heat running from my neighbors' hands through my own and realized that we were sending out our combined spirits to the combatants. The Noldor have many faults, but when they stand united, they are extraordinary.

There was also Amanar, celebrated on the winter solstice in a joyous denial of the cold and dark. Indeed, never was there a season of greater warmth and light. It was custom to keep one's hearth fire always lit during that season, which perfumed the winter air with smoke from every chimney. Lanterns were strung from house eaves, shop windows were full of fresh-baked pastries, and there was music in every street. Macalaurë kept very busy with a long series of concerts, formal and otherwise. He enjoyed himself immensely, but it exhausted him, and we supported him as best we could. On one memorable occasion, I took his place at the head of a band of carolers. We walked all through Tirion, taking joy in our music and the light of the lantern I had slung on a pole over my shoulder. The Fëanárian household was more jubilant than most that season. Amanar is above all a time for family, and our family was whole at last.

Amanar is a beautiful time, but the most sacred of all feasts is Meren Encuivië, the Feast of Reawakening. Though it occurs in the spring, it stands for far more than winter's end. It celebrates the unique Eldarin gift of rebirth, the triumph of light over darkness and life over death. At no other time do we plunge deeper into Arda's dark history, nor affirm more joyously the Allfather's power. Second, it is at this feast that anyone reborn in the past year is formally welcomed back to life. Mine was the only rebirth of that year, and so I learned the customs of Meren Encuivië with special attention. These are both ancient and ceremonial, and I fear I had to hear the details many times before I could recall them all.

Three special rites, each on its own day, precede the feast itself. The first of these is Histë, which is Dusk. It is held on the evening of the first day, and it commemorates both the power of the Valar to create and of Moringotto to destroy. Of particular emphasis are the labors of the Valar in the early ages of Arda and the destruction of Almaren. The observance is permeated by an air of waning glory and encroaching dread.

On the evening of Histë I joined my family and many of my people in the royal chapel in Tirion. It was a beautiful place, with its high vaulted ceiling and its many pillars of red-veined marble. Carvings all along the walls depicted the progression of the music of the Ainur. Behind the dais at the front of the hall, these carvings merged in a sweeping vista of Ezellohar and the Two Trees. Above this, three high stained-glass windows portrayed earth, sea, and sky, symbolizing the Allfather's all-encompassing rule.

When the rites of Histë began, it was late enough that no sunlight shone through those windows. The chapel was lit only by the lamps on the pillars and the chandeliers above. I had never thought of firelight as uncertain, but it seemed so that night. The flickering flames unsettled me, as if foreshadowing the darkness upon which we would soon reflect.

Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna led the ceremonies in Tirion; in Valmar, Lord Manwë and Lady Varda were doing the same. They began with a paean of praise to the Allfather, called Erulaitalë, sung by all in attendance. As I understood it, this was sung even at weekly observances, but tonight was special. On Histë, the musicians played this hymn on splendid drums and horns, and the bells of all the city rang out in joy. After this, Erulaitalë would not be sung nor would the word be uttered until Meren Encuivië itself. Nor would there be any music save for that of unaccompanied voices.

An awesome silence followed the thunder of the large bells and the tinkling of the small ones and the swell of many voices raised in praise. A tangible solemnity descended upon the hall. I was keenly aware of the dark journey we were all about to undertake, and I found myself frightened. I did not question the Allfather's power to banish the darkness; no, I doubted myself. My spirit, and the spirits of everyone in the chapel that night, were about to be tested. One does not simply receive the light of Ilúvatar anew on Meren Encuivië. One earns it by journeying through the darkness of the past and emerging with new resolve - much as one earns rebirth.

We heard passages from many ancient Valarin texts that night. Together we passed through the shaping of the newborn world and the glory of the Spring of Almaren. Far less time, it seemed to me, was spent on these pleasant days than on the fall of the Lamps and what followed. I had never heard the Wars of the Valar sound so long and terrible as they did that night. It became very apparent that the Powers could have torn their new world apart in their struggle against Moringotto, and perhaps only their love for it held them back. This was especially poignant in Aulë's voice, he who understood the labor of creation more than any of the Valar. How it must have burned him, knowing that he might destroy Arda in stopping Moringotto from doing the same.

After this came my part in the proceedings, a small one tonight but no less meaningful. It was customary at this time for the reborn to begin a ritual purification which would end on the third day, the vigil of Meren Encuivië. I came alone before the dais, dressed in the robes of pale blue and silver I wore when I left Mandos. There I stood amidst the many candles, keenly aware of the eyes upon me as I tried to free myself from the sorrow of the readings. My mind had to be clear for this, my rejection of the darkness of my past.

A basin was set before me, filled with the hallowed waters of the tarns on Taniquetil. In this I cleansed my hands, then took a single drop of water and let it fall on my parted lips. After this I was offered a crystal chalice, from which I drank deeply. The cold of it was so intense that I gasped in spite of myself. It seemed to burn rather than freeze as it slipped down into my chest and stomach, as if I had drunk liquid fire. For a moment, I fought the urge to double over and fall to my knees. Then, as the shock faded, I came to feel that I was not exactly in pain. Rather, something had been stripped away, and I was unsure what was left behind.

Thus began the cleansing of my hands, lips, and heart, so that all my deeds, words, and thoughts might be pure in the days to come. Lord Aulë smiled gently as he took the chalice back from me and clasped my shoulder. "Well done, dear one," he said in his low, rough voice. "Not everyone maintains their dignity upon tasting the waters."

I nodded, quite unable to speak, and made my way back to my family. Reality seemed to have sharpened, as though a veil had been lifted from my eyes. The heightened clarity was off-balancing, and I had to take care not to stumble.

After this, there were solemn chants and litanies, Lady Yavanna leading and the people responding. These culminated in a haunting prayer entreating the Allfather to stay with us through the coming night. In contrast to the rich majesty of the Erulaitalë, this chant was simple, and sung with such hollow gravity. There was no joy in it, but neither was there sorrow. There was only resolution: that of a camp wherein all the soldiers know they face a difficult battle on the morrow.

Thus did Histë come to an unsettled end. The people were invited to remain in the chapel and reflect as long as they liked: the lamps would remain lit all night. I knelt before the dais with my family, bowing my head to ask the Allfather to strengthen my spirit. Tomorrow we would face the Darkening and the wars of Beleriand, and I knew I would need all the strength I could get. I did not intend to stay more than a little while, for the gravity of the evening had taken quite a toll on me. As it was, a very strange thing happened. I closed my eyes to pray, and the next moment I looked up to find that the hall was nearly empty, the light of dawn streaming through the high windows.

I thought at first that there must have been some soporific power in the perfumed smoke of the censers. Lord Aulë assured me otherwise. It was no mere daze that took me, he said, but that my mind had wandered beyond the confines of my body. How he knew, I was not sure, but he was certain that for those hours, I was in full communion with the Allfather.

"You have been given a great gift, Fëanáro," Lord Aulë told me. "What that is, only you know, though perhaps you cannot reach it just yet."

Try as I might, I could not remember what the One might have said or shown to me. There was only a feeling, a deep warmth and a surety far beyond my own. Despite my night spent kneeling on a stone floor, I felt as strong and vital as if I had slept deeply for days. I can recall nothing beyond that. Perhaps, if there is something, it is tucked carefully into a secret place in my soul, and I will know it when the time comes.

The second day's observances did not begin until afternoon. My family and I took the opportunity to eat a meal together and gather our strength. I kept my silence, reflecting on the previous night and uncertain what to make of it.

"Is it harder than you thought it would be?" Maitimo asked me, laying a hand on my arm. "I understand. There is a great deal of struggle in these three days, and a great deal of power at work in ways we don't comprehend. It's said that the Allfather is never closer to the Eldar than now, but...it's a bit overwhelming, isn't it? In the past, there were often many Reborn in a given year, so they faced the rites together. It can't be easy for you alone."

"It isn't...difficult, exactly," I mused, swirling the tea in my mug. "Well, I suppose it's as you say, Nelyo. There is power in me and around me now that I haven't felt since I stood in Judgment. I don't understand it, and…I confess it frightens me a bit."

"Don't be afraid," said Ambarto, with such youthful innocence that I could not help but smile. "That power is on your side."

"And why such sorrow?" I asked. "Why renew all the griefs of the ages? I was told that Meren Encuivië is a joyous occasion."

"It is, after today," Curufinwë said shortly.

"Tomorrow night, you will understand," said Maitimo. "We told you that Meren Encuivië represents rebirth. We renew our lives and confront the sins of the past, just as the _fëar_ do in Mandos. There's more to it than that, though. After today, you'll begin to see."

What Maitimo neglected to say was that the second day's rites, although the shortest of the three, were the most sorrowful. This observance is named Fuinë, which is Night or Deep Shadow. The rite is held at midday, and surely that is intentional, for it concerns the darkest times known to Arda. Grim deeds are easier to bear in daylight.

Fuinë accomplishes quite a feat. It takes all the grief of the Darkening and the wars of ages and compresses it into the space of little more than an hour. Our souls are not meant to bear such a concentrated dose of sorrow, and yet there in the chapel in Tirion, we all did. We held each other's hands as we heard the tale of the Darkening as recorded by the Valar. We found glimmers of hope in Arda's great battles and their feats of courage and selflessness. We took pride in the deeds of our heroes, some fallen, all now reborn. The hollow-voiced chants held no despair, nor much of anything else save for cold resolution. I wanted to go numb as we sang them, to forget that it was death that made my second life so much more precious than the first. Rebirth holds no joy, no meaning, if life never ends. I held tight to that. I knew death better than most, and I knew how to endure it.

The most difficult part of Fuinë was surely the ending. Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna placed two earthen pots on the dais, each containing a large branch, twisted and blackened and dead. Without any words, I knew what these were. They were branches of Telperion and Laurelin, remnants of the Darkening.

The people came forward to spend a moment in reflection with these relics. I touched each one lightly in turn, traced the deep black scars where Ungoliant's poison went into the trees' veins. There was something very disturbing about those branches, bent into skeletal shapes like those at the Crescent in Alqualondë. There, though, nature had reclaimed the dead trees on the beach and made them beautiful. There was nothing beautiful about the branches, nor the anguish on the people's faces as they made their quiet, reverential gestures.

I sought desperately for some hope, and at last I found it: the new lamps, Vása and Rána. From the last flower and fruit of the Trees came the great lights that now gave life and warmth to all the world. It was by that lost light that the world would be remade, if Nolofinwë had spoken truly on Midsummer's Eve. Those branches, which seemed to hold nothing but grief, were symbols of resilience.

If Histë tired me, Fuinë exhausted me. I returned home with my family and went straight to my bedchamber without saying a word. I tried to understand all that the past two days held for me, and then to read and distract myself when that failed. I was in no fit state to do either. Although it was afternoon, I quickly found myself dropping off to sleep. I woke only once, as the setting sun turned the light a deep orange. Atar was with me, giving me strength by his presence alone and silently assuring me that the worst was over.

By the next morning, I was refreshed and more or less ready to face the last of the three great rites. This was not held until late at night, so we spent the day making preparations of our own. In our home outside of Tirion, my family came together to cook the traditional foods of Meren Encuivië. This required a rare sort of cooperation and patience, for there were many dishes to prepare. There were several kinds of meats and sausages, a raisin-filled sweetbread, hard-boiled eggs, spring vegetables, and strawberries and cream for dessert. By the time we had accomplished all this, the house was so full of delectable smells that it made my mouth water.

To celebrate Meren Encuivië, Nerdanel told me, most families ate a large meal with their loved ones. The reason for this was that the three days of preparation were taxing to both body and soul. As such, Maiar wandered Tirion and its outskirts all that day, entering homes to bless this food, that it might strengthen those who ate it tomorrow.

It was an active day, and all too soon the night came. With it came Amaurëa, which is Dawn, the Vigil of Meren Encuivië and the greatest of the three rites. I confess I was very anxious, for I had an important role to play in the proceedings. I wondered seriously whether I could keep all my duties straight. Amaurëa is an intricate and unique occasion, so much so that Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna called a meeting to set forth the details before the service began. Though I had heard it all before, I was certainly grateful to hear it again. It was also at that time that I met the two young women who would be assisting Aulë and Yavanna tonight. One was a lively brown-haired Noldo called Sartawendë, and the other, her quieter friend, was called Varyë. I thought her a Vanya at first, but her eyes were Noldorin-grey.

Sartawendë clearly came from a family of Fëanárian loyalists. She approached me with a palpable excitement and a manner that bordered on reverence. Varyë seemed more unsure. Her courtesies were sincere, but she also seemed to be observing me, as if waiting to cast her judgment.

Amaurëa begins in darkness, as does every dawn. This, I was taught, represents death, and the people's little candles stand for the hope of rebirth. In the back of the chapel was a charcoal fire and a much taller pillar candle, elaborately adorned. Around this I gathered with Lord Aulë, Lady Yavanna, and their two young assistants. With an ancient benediction, Lord Aulë hallowed first the fire and then this candle as he lit the first light of the night. There was no sound in the hall other than his voice, and the quiet was heavy with solemnity. The doors of the chapel stood open to the warm spring air, and it seemed to me that in the moment Aulë spoke the blessing, a wind came up, stirring our hair and robes and raising gooseflesh on my arms. It sent a shiver through me, as if the spark of a static charge had jumped from some metallic object to my skin. That is but a pale comparison, for the effect of this upon me was far more profound. As I took the tall pillar candle from Lord Aulë, I sensed that an ancient, awesome power had been invoked and now dwelt in my very hands.

I knew what I had to do now. A Reborn had done it every year since the first observance of Amaurëa.

"Stop every third of the way, Finwion," Lord Aulë told me gently.

Varyë and Sartawendë lit their tapers from the hallowed candle in my hands. Then, adjusting my grip, I turned and walked into the darkness of the chapel.

My eyes adjusted enough to make out the shapes of the people in their seats on either side of the main aisle. That pathway itself remained thickly cloaked in shadow, as did the dais ahead of me. Behind me, I knew the two maidens were helping to light the people's candles, but I could see none of that warm amber glow. Ahead of me was only darkness, and into it I bore the sole relieving light. A strange feeling of mingled courage and responsibility settled upon me as I walked. Yes, I went alone into darkness, leading others behind me, but I carried with me a sacred lamp before which all evil would flee. I stopped twice on my way, and each time Lord Aulë chanted that this was no ordinary fire I bore, but the Flame Imperishable itself. The wonder of this was beyond my comprehension: I, a kinslayer, bore the Sacred Fire upon a candle, and it did not burn me. Truly then did I know my soul to be saved, and also the depth of the Allfather's mercy. I had no reason to fear.

I felt my feet touch the bottom of the dais, and I stopped for the third time. Taking one step up, I turned to face the people and lifted the pillar candle as high as I dared. Lord Aulë repeated the chant, but I had no voice to sing it, for the spectacle before me had stolen my breath. All the people's tapers had been lit, and it seemed that many fireflies bobbed on a dark sea. The shadows and the golden glow played over their faces, lending them an uncertain air. I had never seen anything so beautiful and so compelling. The people waited in darkness, as did the dead in Mandos, to receive the light of the Allfather - the light in my hands. The thought made my chest tighten with a mix of emotions I could not describe.

I set the pillar candle on its pedestal and took a breath to calm myself. It was now my duty as a Reborn to proclaim hope to the people in an ancient chant called Lirilla Cáleva, the Lay of Light. It is a long chant and sung unaccompanied, for no instruments may be played between the sounding of Erulaitalë on Histë and Meren Encuivië itself. In the past, all the Reborn released from Mandos in a given year would have sung the lay together. Mine was of course the sole rebirth of that year, and I was alone. Despite the fire burning bravely beside me, I confess I was very nervous.

"You'll be brilliant," said Sartawendë's encouraging voice from behind me. "No fear, Highness."

I looked up at the pillar candle again, swallowed hard, and began to sing.

The text of the Lirilla Cáleva predates Meren Encuivië by many thousands of years. It is in fact a portion of the Ainulindalë, the only one revealed to the Eldar. The words are thus Valarin, and they hold a solemn, ancient power that is palpable from the first syllable. They praise the Flame Imperishable, calling the people to rejoice in that light before which no darkness can stand. They promise that though this fire is divided into many smaller flames, an ember within every living thing, it burns yet undimmed and unweakened. They name this the night on which, above all other nights, the earthly and the divine become one.

As I chanted the primordial Valarin words, I began to feel disconnected from the reality that was my nervousness. At times, the choir at the base of the dais sang verses with me, and their harmonies were broad and deep and strong. I lost myself in this sound, in the simple rise and fall of the melody I wove. It called me back to past times, evoked forces older and more profound than I could comprehend. When I came to the line which called the very stones of the chapel to tremble with joy, I did not have to imagine it. Perhaps it was my own body and soul trembling with the power of which I sang praise; I do not know. Whatever the case, when the last chord faded away, the echoes left something more than silence in their wake. We were all changed. The uncertainty was gone, and the fear of the dark.

I took my seat on the dais as steadily as I could. What I had just done hardly seemed real, yet I knew it must be. The quiver of joy in my spirit was quite sincere.

After the Lirilla Cáleva came a long series of readings delving back to the very creation of Arda. These came from the Valaquenta and other Eldarin texts grappling with the Ainulindalë. They concerned the shaping of Arda, the nature of the Great Music, and the end of times when that music would be made anew. A chant followed each reading, giving the people a chance to reflect on the passages. I had learned many of these verses as a youth, and studied them as a loremaster, but never quite like this. Tonight, in the amber-lit darkness with the pillar candle burning beside me, they took on new meaning. It did not feel like a recitation of long-dead events from a time gone by; the passages had a new immediacy now. I could see them in my mind's eye, played out before me in the shifting patches of firelight and shadow.

The readings were many, and it was a long while before they ended. As the final chant trailed away, I heard a bell begin to toll midnight. It pealed only once before it was joined by every bell in the hall, rung exultantly by Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna and their young assistants. All the lampstones came alight at once. The Erulaitalë, unheard since the night of Histë, rang out once again, accompanied by brass and drums. Somehow it was more majestic than it had been three days ago. I could see Sartawendë laughing for joy as she rang her set of handbells. Though Varyë was attempting to remain reverent, she could not suppress a wide grin. Nor could I. I felt the music surround me, vibrate against my ribs and fill me with its glory. If the stones of the chapel had not been shaken by the Lay of Light, they certainly were now.

After this came what was for me the most crucial part of Meren Encuivië, for it was Meren Encuivië in truth now. Lord Aulë called me to stand before him, and I came, no longer clad in the blue and grey of Mandos but in pure white. I had cast off the colors of those Halls and of my death, for it bound me no longer. Once again, I was keenly aware of every eye in the chapel upon me, but this no longer disconcerted me. Whatever happened next was for me and the Allfather alone. What the people thought of it, for good or ill, was no concern of mine now.

"Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion," Lord Aulë began, formal but with deep affection, "you have passed through the confines of the Void and returned to life. Your soul has been healed and your sins forgiven. Is it your wish, then, to rejoin the living in full, to reject death and all that led you to it?"

There was nothing to consider about this. "It is, my lord," I replied so that the hall could hear my declaration.

Lord Aulë smiled warmly. "What, then, is the purpose of the three days of preparation you have undertaken?"

I froze. No one had warned me of this. I knew a moment of panic in which I feared that if I answered wrongly, I would lose my chance to reenter life in full. Then I looked up at Lord Aulë and saw his utter faith in me, just as if I were still his apprentice, and I calmed myself. I thought on everything I had heard in the past few days: the breaking of the Lamps, the Darkening of Valinor, the wars of the ages, the blackened branches of the Two Trees, the pillar candle, the Lirilla Cáleva... And suddenly I thought I knew how it all connected.

Without truly thinking, I spoke. "The Lamps were destroyed, and reborn in the Two Trees," I began. "The Two Trees were reborn in the sun and moon. Arda arose from the Ainulindalë, given new form by echoes of that music throughout time. Though this world will end, it will be reborn by a second music greater still than the first. It's a cycle, isn't it? Good rises ever out of evil, light out of darkness, life out of death. New and greater creations rise from the ruins of the old. The three days of preparation reveal that cycle. They prove that we need never despair, for death is never victorious, is it? Even when we of the Eldar die, it is but a passing fire to burn away all our flaws and shortcomings. We are healed and redeemed and we return stronger than before. At least, I...I believe I have done so, my lord."

My voice, which had risen steadily as I gained confidence, suddenly faltered. As one of the Aratar, Lord Aulë knew many secret and sacred things. He would surely be able to judge whether I had truly been reborn a better man.

To my intense relief, he clasped my shoulders and said, "You have indeed, Finwion. Well spoken."

Letting out a long, slow breath, my heart racing, I dropped to my knees before him. He laid hands on my head to give me the blessing of the Valar. Sartawendë held the book of prayers for him to read while Varyë brought forth a small silver vial of perfumed oil. With this, Lord Aulë anointed my forehead and placed a drop on my lips. Then he mixed a small amount into a chalice of the tarn waters of Taniquetil and offered it to me to drink, as I had three days ago. The choir sang a lovely chant that flowed like water, calling down the Flame Imperishable to strengthen me. With the cold fire of the hallowed waters spreading through my body, my ritual purification was complete. I felt a weight I did not know I was carrying lift from me, and all my senses sharpened to receive the gift that is life.

"Be welcomed back among the living, Finwion," Lord Aulë said gently.

He waited for me to stand up, but for a long moment, I could not. I wanted only to kneel there and smell the piney tang of the oil, hear the crackling of the candle flames, feel the pure, piercing cold of the water in my veins. Only once, on the night of my release from Mandos, had I felt so awake, so painfully, wonderfully alive. And now death was truly behind me, rendered powerless by my own rejection of it. The Void would hold me no longer, not even in memory. I knew that the very light I bore into the black chapel tonight burned inside me, and no darkness would ever quench it. It was all so wondrous that I felt my chest tighten and my eyes begin to prickle.

When I had swallowed my emotions, I allowed Lord Aulë to help me to my feet. As I turned to face the hall, the gathered people burst into applause. I noticed then, as I smiled with deepest gratitude, that many of them wore Fëanárian red and gold, and were weeping openly. For them, I knew, this night was a dream they had feared would never be realized. I tried to convey with my eyes all the love I bore to them and the debt I owed them for their unfailing support. I wanted nothing more than for despair to flee far from their hearts.

Looking up, I met Sartawendë's shining eyes and Varyë's more cautious ones. She was smiling too, but with the air of one who has seen something she did not look to find. It was as if she had not expected me to be so deeply affected by the rite, and now she saw me in a new light. I suspected that she had been taught to be cautious of me and my folk, and did not know what to make of my behavior tonight. Still, the smile she offered me then was genuine. I might have added another line to the book of my redemption, I thought, in showing this young lady that she need not fear me.

After that, the remainder of the rite was a dim blur, lost in profound joy. There were more readings and more chants, but these were uplifting now. The darkness of the past was banished, the feast of light begun. At the end, we walked back down the main aisle to the swell of a hymn to all creation, sung by every voice in the chapel. I led this recessional, as I had at the start of the night, but I did not carry the pillar candle now. In my hands this time was an ornate golden censer, trailing perfumed smoke up to the vaulted ceiling. Little bells hung from the censer's bottom, and as I swung it, they rang merrily with a crystalline sound. Amidst the thunder of many voices, I caught a line in praise of fire: " _Thou fire so masterful and bright, that givest man both warmth and light._ " I knew the words more likely referred to the Flame Imperishable than anything else. Even so, I could not help but feel that tonight, as I made my return to life in full, they were meant for me.

Once, I looked back over my shoulder at the pillar candle burning on the dais. It would burn all year, until next Histë, and like all candles of Valarin make, its wax would never melt. It reminded me of my ancient, soot-blackened lamp, the one my family would light every Midsummer's Eve on the anniversary of my return. I once likened my soul to that lamp: damaged and tarnished by time but still burning all the same. As I walked down the aisle, I thought I could be like the pillar candle as well: a light in dark places, a messenger of hope. Calacolindo, as my most loyal allies named me: Light-Bearer.

The next day was full of feasting and family. My father came, as did several old friends from my childhood. Though I had gotten little sleep the night before, I did not tire. The vitality I felt during the rite never left me. Everything was clearer, more vivid, more wonderful. Food and drink tasted sweeter, the sunlight looked brighter, laughter felt freer. The hallowed waters and the scented oil had helped me along, but I suspected my newfound clarity had more to do with my own soul. I was truly free now. I had looked into the dark and seen that death did not, could not hold me. I recalled the words engraved on the knife Andion gave me in Formenos: _Light the mother of shadow will always triumph._ Shadow needed light to exist, but light did not need shadow; thus shadow could never hold it for long. By the same token, as long as I was a child of Eru I was also a child of light. Darkness might be my foe, but it would never be my conqueror.

That evening, I sat on the roof of my home with Atar at my side, watching the sun set in deep orange. It reminded me of the amber candlelight filling the chapel as the rite of Amaurëa began. Atar traced the contours of my cheek with his fingertips, smiling with deepest love.

"Look at you, _yonya_ ," he said affectionately. "I can hardly believe you are the same person who came before me on Midsummer's Eve and asked if I would disown him."

Indeed, the memory hardly seemed real now, though it was less than a year old. The Fëanáro who returned to Tirion that night was full of shame and uncertainty, wondering if he should be alive. The Fëanáro of the present had survived an assassin, forged new ties with his estranged half-siblings, made peace with the Telerin people, and won the trust of their prince. He had stood, once at the Lómë Neldë Calmaiva and again at Meren Encuivië, before the evils of his past and confronted them. He had looked into the shadows in his heart and proved himself stronger than his own fears, his own doubts, his own sins.

 _Rather impressive, for less than a year's work_ , I thought, with a touch of my old arrogance.

I returned Atar's smile, feeling a peace such as I rarely knew well up within me.

"I am not the same person," I told him. "I am a much stronger one now, I daresay."

"Many of the reborn find that they must discover themselves anew, find a purpose in a new world," said Atar. "It can be difficult, and frightening, as you know from Prince Calairon. What is your purpose, my son?"

While preparing to leave Mandos, I told myself that I was simply Curufinwë Fëanáro, blessings and curses alike. I was oath-maker and kinslayer, scholar, craftsman, leader, husband, father. None of that had changed. All those things were inextricably bound to my soul as I knew it to be. But the rites of Meren Encuivië had shown me something else as well, something that had not yet matured.

"I am simply Fëanáro," I told Atar, "whatever that means to you. I always will be. But I also…"

Carrying the pillar candle into the darkened chapel had taught me that bearing light was a great responsibility. It would require all my courage and wisdom and strength, but I knew it was what I wanted. I had never felt more complete, more right, than when that candle was in my hands. Even in my previous life, I longed to bring light and beauty into Arda. What else were the Silmarilli but the incarnation of that longing? There was more to it now, though, than physical light. It was a light of the spirit I wanted to bring: to give hope and purpose to the lost, counsel to the sorrowing, friendship to the lonely. What truer way was there to repay the One who had given me all those things?

" _Through sorrow to find joy_ – are those not the words I spoke all those ages ago?" I said. "That has indeed been my journey, though it's been far longer than I thought then. Well, last night I stood before Lord Aulë and rejected the Void and all that led me there. To that I mean to hold. It's long past time I shook myself free from the darkness. I defy it. It shall not have my soul."

I tipped my head back against Atar's shoulder and closed my eyes. The setting sun turned the darkness behind my eyelids a deep red.

"My soul shall be the light."

FINIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Amanar" essentially means "Yule." According to Parf Edhellen, it comes from one of Tolkien's Christmas letters. It has no official translation, but it has to do with the return of the sun after the winter solstice.
> 
> The Feast of Reawakening and its three rites are my own creations, but very much based on Easter as celebrated in the Catholic tradition.
> 
> Anyway, here we are! This story has been a journey. I started it in my last year of high school, finished it as a university student, and revamped it and presented it here in my last semester of graduate school. I feel that my writing and my ideas matured alongside the characters in this story. I originally intended this to be a series leading up to the end of Arda, which is why you might notice certain subplots that aren't quite tied off. I'm no longer sure when or if that series will take shape, but thankfully, this story can stand on its as Fëanor's initiation back into life. It's a wholesome story of forgiveness and growth, and I hope it cheers you up in these crazy times.
> 
> There is such a wealth of talent in this fandom, and I'm truly grateful that all of you chose to visit this story. Your kudos, bookmarks, and comments mean so much to me. It's been absolutely lovely talking with all of you in the comment section - thank you for taking the time to leave me such kind and encouraging words. I hope you've enjoyed what I've presented here; it's been a pleasure sharing it with you!


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